


all my love forever

by tempestaurora



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A tenuous grip of immortality, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Captain Marvel (2019) Spoilers, Domestic Bliss, Excellent Very Good Dad Bucky Barnes, F/M, I mean INCREDIBLY SLOW BURN, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent Bucky Barnes, Parent Steve Rogers, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Set from 1945 to present day, Slow Burn, Vietnam War, World War II, bucky barnes holding babies, when i said slow burn you guys didn't believe me but now who's laughing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 93,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23334550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestaurora/pseuds/tempestaurora
Summary: Bucky Barnes does not fall from the train in the Alps. Steve Rogers does not go missing in the crash-landing of the Valkyrie. Instead, they go back to Brooklyn, they get a new apartment, and they try to start over.In 1946, Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter get married.In 1952, Bucky Barnes marries, too.They have children, they go to work, they struggle with domestic life after their years at war. And throughout it all, despite it all, Bucky Barnes is irrevocably in love with Steve Rogers.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Peggy Carter, James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, during the fic but not endgame:, platonic:
Comments: 957
Kudos: 454





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> are you guys ready for the slowest burn you've ever read? for an obvious lack of knowledge of american history? for bucky barnes holding MANY babies and children? man i hope so because that's what i've got for you
> 
> 6 chapters is my speculation; i am currently writing chapter 5, but you know me, it's likely to run a little longer
> 
> the title is from a letter of gordon bowsher to gilbert bradley; two men in love during world war ii. their letters were discovered after bradley's death in 2008 and are incredibly rare, as most incriminating evidence of homosexual relationships from the time were destroyed. homosexuality was decriminalised in 1967, and that will be relevant in this story. i have included the letter it came from at the beginning of the fic.
> 
> i really do hope you enjoy it because writing a fic (especially one this long) in the midst of writers block is HARD ok. i plan to update regularly, and i'd expect chapter 2 to be up sometime this weekend

_Wednesday January 24th 1939_

_My darling,_

_... I lie awake all night waiting for the postman in the early morning, and then when he does not bring anything from you I just exist, a mass of nerves..._

_All my love forever,_

_G._

The view from the train was fleeting. It was white, jagged; snow-encrusted mountains as far as the eye could see. Bucky’s breath came out visible. He used to breathe out hard as a child in the cold, like a dragon or a steam engine. He would watch the cloud swirl in on itself and peter out, vanishing into the air. Now there was no time to focus on it, to marvel. He had a gun in his hand, and there was a gaping hole in the side of the train.

The metal was curled back, the edges melted from the heat of the gun. Bucky had never seen a gun like it, not in all his days at war. It was massive, and the ammunition wasn’t bullets but something glowing, something like a sun.

He picked up the shield. Steve was yelling, so was Bucky, but he couldn’t make out any of the words. He shot at the Hydra agent with the sun-gun until he was out of bullets, and then there was a flash and the shield was out of his hand, he was out of the train, and it was all he could do to hold on.

The wind whipped his face raw. His hands felt frozen against the handrail he desperately held onto. He felt like one of Becca’s ragdolls, like a body full of beans or cotton, useless, docile.

Then Steve appeared in the hole at the side of the train, his hand stretching out.

“Bucky!” Steve looked pained, looked like he was in some kinda anguish. Bucky knew the feeling. He knew what it was like to look at your best friend and think they were gonna die. He squeezed the handrail tighter. Steve stepped out onto the narrowest ledge, holding onto the rail; his entire body was coiled tight, shaking.

Steve’s hand shot out and clamped down over Bucky’s. He heaved. Bucky risked the move; let go of the rail to grab onto Steve.

Inch by inch, he was pulled towards the train. His arms tired and numbed, his face red and stinging from the wind. He felt like jelly, felt boneless. But Steve didn’t let go, not once.

Above a stomach-swoopingly deep ravine between the mountains, Bucky was pulled back into the train. They fell in a heap together on the floor, the Hydra agent dead only a metre away. There were no words, no sounds, nothing but deep, ragged breaths and the cold that had sunk all the way into Bucky’s body.

His skin tingled, his muscles ached, but he was alive.

He could feel it; his heartbeat thumping rapidly against his ribs, like it’d bruise from the inside.

They didn’t get up for a long time. Gabe completed the mission and captured Zola and the train eventually came to a screeching halt at the next station. Bucky breathed. Bucky was alive.

He sat up, slow and painful, and looked out the gaping hole in the side of the carriage. He could see the mountains, the ravine, the snow and ice and jagged rocks. He could not speak, so he thought, _Man. What would have happened if I fell?_

*

The war ended and it was—strange. Being alive, that is. Bucky didn’t expect to make it this far, didn’t expect to live through the trenches and the missions, the gore and bloodshed. He didn’t expect to see the boat ride home; the deck packed tight with soldiers clinging onto threadbare blankets and nursing their injuries, internal and not.

He was silent for days on the sea, curled up in his bunk. He was travelling with Captain America; a war hero, a Howling Commando, and they were given their own cabins, while the other soldiers slept on the floor, cramped and tight like sardines across the Atlantic. Bucky’s cabin had two beds, thin and uncomfortable. They were bunked, and Steve slept on the top, his legs so long they hung off the end, his hand dangling uselessly over the side.

Bucky stared at his fingers in the dark. They were long, elegant; painter’s hands, artist’s hands – so used to being stained with oil and charcoal that it was a wonder they were even able to curl around the trigger of a gun. Bucky stared at those hands, those killing hands, those beautiful hands. There was a faint light from the porthole window; the moon, the distant yellow glow of a lantern. He stared at those hands and he prayed.

*

Brooklyn was exactly how he remembered and maybe that was the problem. Bucky felt trapped between the walls of his apartment; they were so much bigger than the ones he and Steve had shared before shipping off. There were two bedrooms rather than one; there was counter space in the kitchen and a table with four whole chairs. The clock on the wall worked, its ticking somehow infinitely quieter than Bucky had ever heard a clock to be. The heating ran year round, the water never came out brown before running clear, the walls didn’t hum with faulty pipes and wires.

It was wrong, somehow. It was all wrong.

Bucky yearned for the rushing of water in the pipes; the chipped tile walls of his old apartment bathroom, the creaky fire escape and splintered floorboards. He ached for the single bedroom; the one bed that he and Steve shared, the scratchy blankets and yowling alley cats right outside their window.

Outside the apartment, Brooklyn was the same and it chafed him, too. The only noticeable difference were the people; they still played music too loud and yelled in the streets. They still worked and raised families, still danced on Friday nights and bought out the bars with whiskey and scotch – but there were less of them. Less men. Less faces that resembled Bucky’s own; less cocksure smirks and raucous laughter. More tightly pinched faces, forcing out the grief. More women wandering the streets with vacant gazes. More children, hanging onto their mother’s hands at the park on weekends, no fathers in sight.

It was wrong. It was strange. The people had been changed, whether they left the city or not, but Brooklyn itself was the same. The buildings and the shops; the cars and the children playing in the streets – only now they wielded painted garbage can lids, Captain America shields that they raised as they ran into battle against the other neighbourhood boys.

And Bucky watched it all from the window of his own room, where Steve was not, and realised that Brooklyn was the same. It grieved, it mourned, but it moved on. Brooklyn hadn’t changed, but Bucky Barnes had, and there was no way of changing that truth.

*

They went dancing.

_They_ being Bucky and Steve and Peggy. She turned heads wherever she went, but so did Steve now. Bucky was used to being the only hot shit in the group, but he travelled with Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter, and somehow he was now the loner; leaning against the dancehall wall and watching his best friend stumble through the steps. Dancing had never been his strong suit, even when he had a smaller body. Now he was big and he was still relearning every inch of himself; it had been almost three years and he was still snapping pencils by holding them too hard and cracking glasses when he placed them on the counter.

Peggy was dressed in red; her lipstick, her dress, her shoes. Her hair was curled, her bracelet sparkling in the lights. She was the kind of woman men chased; the kind who would never let themselves be caught. She didn’t play games; she simply told Steve what she wanted, kissed him from the speeding car as he and Bucky leapt onto that plane, said _Would you like to be my dance partner?_ when they trudged back from the ice; cold and bruised and bloodied.

Steve couldn’t have said yes fast enough.

So, Bucky was jealous. He’d admit it. He watched them dance and twirl and laugh; Steve was messing up the steps again, but Peggy was oh-so-perfect, oh-so-in love, and Bucky couldn’t help but feel the envy grow. He wanted that. He wanted to be out there, dancing. But the truth of the matter was that he was not watching Peggy, he was watching Steve, and Bucky knew he couldn’t have that.

“Wanna dance?” someone said beside him. Bucky turned his head to the side, where a girl with short red hair and classy, stylish glasses, was looking at him. In all honesty, if he hadn’t been hopelessly, desperately in love with Steve Rogers, she was exactly the kind of girl he would’ve been eyeing. But he was, so he’d let her pass him by.

For a moment, Bucky hesitated, glancing back out at Steve and Peggy; Steve was dressed in some of the nicest clothes he’d ever owned; a shirt that fit him properly, trousers that weren’t hemmed and held up by a belt with three extra holes. His hair was starting to grow out from his regulation army length, just a little.

Once, not so long ago, Steve would’ve been here in Bucky’s position; watching Bucky dance with a girl and hoping someone would invite him out onto the floor. Bucky would’ve been happy for him; jealous, maybe, that he hadn’t gotten to do it himself, but happy all the same. He would’ve never let it pass his sight if Steve had turned someone down, and he couldn’t imagine Steve ignoring the same thing now.

He blew out a breath and held out a hand. “I’d love to.”

And it was fun. Bucky Barnes was nothing if not a dancer. In another life, maybe he would’ve been dancing his way across the world, rather than trooping through mud and shit with a gun in his hands.

Her name was Elizabeth, but she insisted he call her Betty.

“Betty and Bucky,” she laughed, and he twirled her. She was a very good dancer, too. Betty was light on her feet with a good sense of rhythm, and after all the classic dances had been played through, she was happy enough to improvise and follow Bucky’s lead. He let himself picture, for a moment, falling in love with Betty and dancing every weekend away; raising their children to jazz and teaching them the steps in the living room; slow dancing the night away when they were old and wrinkled, their bodies not what they used to be.

It was a pretty picture, but it wasn’t for him. Bucky knew the only real future he had was with Steve, and Steve—his future laid elsewhere. If Bucky couldn’t have Steve, he couldn’t imagine himself having anyone at all.

At the end of the night, the four of them stepped out into the cold night air. Steve nodded at Bucky.

“I’m gonna walk Pegs home, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky said. “I’ll walk Betty back. See you at home.”

Steve waved and then they were gone, headed down the road in opposite directions.

Betty tucked herself into Bucky’s side, her arm looped around his. When he lit up a cigarette, she shared it, and they talked quietly about having sisters, about overbearing parents and Betty’s job at the factory. It was light, surface-level, and he didn’t ask for much more, but she gave it to him anyway.

“My fiancé was in the one-oh-three,” she mused, looking up at the moon. It was almost full, just a slither missing. “We didn’t get the letter until after the end of the war. Spent two years dreading it would come, and then when I finally breathed a sigh of relief, it showed up at the door.”

“I’m sorry.”

She hummed. “His name was Daniel.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Outside her door, they stood in the alcove of the door, dimly lit by the porch light, and looked at each other. Betty’s smile was soft, understanding. She said, “Thank you for the dance.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Bucky replied. “I haven’t danced like that in a long time.”

“And thank you for walking me home.” She leaned up and pressed a kiss into his cheek before pulling her keys from her purse and turning to the door. Bucky was about to head back down the steps before she stopped suddenly. “Can I give you some advice?”

He blinked in surprise. “Sure?”

“If you really love her, you should let her know.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That girl, dancing with your friend. Peggy, right? She’s beautiful. I know she’s with your friend, but I think you should take the chance and let her know.”

Bucky shuddered out a breath. “Why do you think I’m in love with Peggy?”

Betty laughed, rolling her eyes like it was obvious. “You were staring at her the whole night,” she said. Betty fit her keys in the lock and leaned on the door, pressing it open and letting the yellow hall light spill across them. She became little more than a silhouette. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

“N—night, Betty.”

She vanished inside the building and Bucky stared at the door, at the spot where she’d once been. He was simultaneously relieved and destroyed that it was that obvious, and yet also so hidden. He could stare at Steve all he liked, apparently, and everyone else would think he was staring at Peggy.

*

He’d fallen in love with Steve at age fifteen. He’d not fallen out of love since.

*

Steve was still Captain America even if the war was over. There was still plenty of need for a super soldier, and still, apparently, plenty of need for Bucky.

“Mm, it’s not the Howling Commandos,” Peggy said through a mouthful of pancake at Bucky’s dining room table. Steve was up at the stove, cooking his own breakfast. “But you’d still be in a team.”

“And what would I be doing?” Bucky let his fork clatter against the plate and picked up the rasher of bacon with his fingers. Steve had a tendency to overcook them, but Bucky had started to like the burnt taste a long time ago.

“Intelligence, mostly.”

Steve snorted. “Needs to _be_ intelligent for that.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “More Nazis, or?”

“America has a lot of enemies,” Peggy replied, as if they weren’t eating breakfast, and were instead in her office, where this meeting probably should’ve been taking place. But Bucky had woken up Sunday morning, some six months after coming back from the war, and there she’d been; walking out of Steve’s room as if she belonged between these walls just as much as he did. “So Nazis, yes, but there are other groups out there we need information on. It’s not—” she pulled a face. “I’m not asking you to fight again. You won’t be storming buildings or fighting wars. It’s more—interrogation.”

Steve looked over his shoulder and Bucky paused. “Interrogation.”

“We know you’re an excellent sniper,” Peggy said, as if she was rushing to explain a question that hadn’t been asked. “You have skills in combat, in leadership, we know. But we think you’d be suited well to this.”

“To interrogating people.”

“To obtaining information.”

Bucky eyed Peggy. She wasn’t usually one to beat around the bush, but she was also sitting in his apartment eating pancakes. This wasn’t an official meeting; they were not co-workers or colleagues; they were, somehow, _friends._ Even if they were the same type of person; brash, bold, with a tendency to infuriate each other to no end, they were friends. Steve had made them so. And because they were friends, she hadn’t requested him to fight in battles and shoot people in the head; she hadn’t suggested that he set off bombs or capture enemies of the state.

Because they were friends, Steve would’ve told her about Bucky’s nightmares. Because she’d slept there last night, she’d probably heard them herself.

Steve had been assigned to an operational unit and Bucky had assumed that if Peggy asked him to join, he’d be placed in the same group. But, Bucky supposed, Steve didn’t have the screaming-crying-horrifying nightmares that Bucky had.

In the end he said, “I’ll think about it,” and ate the end of his breakfast. The three of them went to the park and sat on the grass in the beating sun. Peggy’s roommate Angie joined them, and the four of them ate ice creams and simmered in the early summer heat, and Bucky thought all about interrogation; about the pay, about the trigger-happy feeling he’d been carrying since 1943, about how he’d be doing something a lot more important than just working on the docks again.

They got lunch out and returned back to the apartment before the heat turned unbearable in the middle of the afternoon. They opened up all the windows and doors, let the cross breeze through, and danced in the living room to whatever they had for the phonograph. Steve was still a useless dancer, and Bucky said as much, heaving himself off the sofa and nudging him aside to take Peggy’s hands in his own.

He danced with her in the way she deserved to be danced with (though she never seemed less than happy dancing with Steve), and then taught Angie a few steps she’d been wanting to learn. They opened up a bottle and got a little tipsy, and for a few hours Bucky managed to forget his all-encompassing love for Steve and enjoy himself.

When it neared dinner, he flopped down on the sofa beside Peggy, and she automatically dropped her head onto his shoulder, all familiar and friendly. They _were_ friends, he realised. Not because of Steve – even if that was how it started – but _because_ they were both the same kind of brash and bold and infuriating. Opposites attracted and so did similarities apparently.

He said, “I suppose I could come work for you,” and she beamed up at him.

“Oh, I think that’s a marvellous idea. I’ll get you the best team,” she promised. He swung his arm across her shoulders and watched as Angie flicked through their measly record stack with Steve, who had a small glass of the special kind of alcohol Stark had whipped up for him, both their cheeks flushed from dancing and drink. “Some people are born for battles, you know.”

“Hm?” He looked down at her.

“We may think we’re made for one thing, but sometimes it’s something entirely other,” she said, as if she was making any sense to Bucky’s ears. “I thought I would be a seamstress when I was a teenager, and then the war happened and I realised that there’s nothing more perfect for me than this.”

“Than war?”

She hummed. “I think war’s just a small part of it. War’s just the catalyst; now comes everything after.”

*

Bucky went to dinner at his parents’ place every weekend.

They, too, had only changed in that second-hand way of the remainder of Brooklyn; the people left behind, the ones who mourned and lost but couldn’t imagine the horrors the soldiers had seen.

They had no idea and Bucky knew it. They wouldn’t be able to fathom the things he’d done, the things he’d felt. He’d break his mother’s heart to describe them; the bloodshed and the agony; the feeling of flying from the side of the train’s ripped-open wall, the look on Private Matthews’ face before Bucky put a bullet through it, the feeling under his fingertips when he gouged out a Nazi’s eyes.

His mother made dinner and they didn’t talk about Europe.

The dinner table had become more cramped since he left, and his three sisters had grown a little taller, a little older. Becca was twenty-three and engaged, and her fiancé Timothy came to the dinners and talked about his nice, safe office job. He’d been too sickly to enlist, with his limp, but he’d stammered over his words when initially meeting Bucky— _Sergeant James Barnes,_ rather. He’d tried to salute, then shook Bucky’s hand, then thanked him for his service. Charlotte was now twenty, with a whole host of boys courting her from every direction, though she’d apparently refused to give any of them the time of day. And the youngest, Catherine, was sixteen and dropping out of school – she’d swung an acceptance into typing school, and within the year would be one of the best qualified secretaries in the borough.

Meanwhile, Bucky was interrogating America’s enemies and wearing a uniform like he was still at war. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but drawing out information was a talent he’d refined in Europe; he knew what was too much pressure, too much pain, and what was not enough. These were rarely civilised conversations; these were battles for dominance with blood splatter and bones shattering.

Timothy was an accountant. Bucky had the feeling Timothy would vomit to hear even a little about Bucky’s line of work.

They ate their meal weekly and sometimes Steve came along, too. Once or twice, if Peggy was free, she’d settle into the cramped table with them – everyone was so very interested in her, in England, in her role in the army and now her job with the government. They were all so amazed by Steve’s transformation – Catherine especially, with her long-standing crush (and her inevitable jealousy of Peggy – something Bucky could relate to), and everyone told stories about the good old days of small Steve tearing up the streets and regular-sized Bucky following in his wake.

Occasionally, Angie came along too. It wasn’t dependant on Peggy, but simply on if she wanted company and a homecooked meal, and all the girls fell instantly in love; their chatter loud and buoyant and flooding the whole street.

After dinner, Bucky tended to smoke out in the garden and picture himself small, running through the soggy patch of grass, his twin-sized bed squeaking with every toss and turn, his room more like a cupboard so he could have it to himself, rather than share the bigger room with his sisters. He’d imagine himself older, too, hanging out with Steve in his room, reading pulp fiction and pretending to study. He’d brought girls back once or twice, when he knew the house would be empty and he could get away with bringing them into his box-sized room, necking with them in the quiet and slipping his hand up their skirts.

He blew out the smoke, letting the image of Marjorie Bernstein beneath him on the mattress waft away with it. The back door opened and his father stepped out, careful to keep his feet out of the mud and to the small patch of patio. He took a cigarette from Bucky’s pack and held it out for his son to light.

“How’s work?” his father asked. George Barnes was not much of a talker and had grown quieter and quieter as his daughters grew louder and louder.

“Work’s fine,” Bucky replied.

“Better than the docks?”

“Anything’s better than the docks.” This was not strictly true, but Bucky ignored that. So did his father.

“And the apartment? You like it there, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah. The apartment’s great.” Also not particularly truthful – but Bucky was slowly, painfully settling into the place. He was grateful for the quieter ticking of the clock, for the pipes not rattling in the walls and the lack of creaky floorboards. He might’ve missed the single bed still and Steve’s body pressed up against his, be it on a mattress or out on a fire escape, but he knew to appreciate the small victories even in the face of large losses.

“Steve’s doing good too, eh?”

“Yeah. He is.”

“That Peggy sure is a catch.”

Bucky nodded, sucked in a lungful of smoke.

“You like her, right?”

“What? Yeah. Peggy’s great. She was the best person we could’ve had with us out there, and she’s still as scary and efficient now.”

His father nodded and coughed hard. When he was done, he said, “Then why do you look so sad?”

“I’m not—Pops, what are you talking about?”

“I don’t think your Ma can see it yet, but I can. There’s this dark cloud around you. It’s been there ever since you got back.”

Bucky sniffed and stared out at the fence and the house that backed onto theirs. Their windows were open wide, curtains billowing in the breeze. “Pops. I’m fine, really. It’s—it’s war, you know? You remember it.”

His father shrugged, humming lightly. “I barely saw a thing. But, you—you, son, you were a _Howling Commando._ We watched all your pictures, but I’d bet there was a lot worse that we’d never see on screen.” He’d be right, too. He’d make a killing if he put money on it. “You know, shellshock’s pretty common—”

“I don’t have shellshock,” Bucky interrupted, his tone a little too hard. He sighed. “I’m fine. I’m just—not over it all. A lot of bad things happened out there. But I’ll be fine, I promise.”

His father nodded and settled a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “I know, James. You just let me know if things are bad. And if you ever wanna come home—well we made your room into a storage closet, so you can’t.” The two of them laughed. “No, no. You can take one of the girl’s beds, or the couch whenever you’d like. I’m sure Becca will be out of here soon anyway; Tim’s found a place by the bay. You’ll have to help us help them move.”

“Yeah, Pops. Sure thing.”

His father kept talking. “And your mother—she thinks you should visit more, if you can of course. I know your job’s busy. She’s been wondering where you’re doing your laundry; she’s always happy to help out, you know. And Charlotte’s been talking for two years about going to a dance hall with you.” His quiet father who rarely spoke filled the air with thoughts and suggestions and wonderings, and the two of them smoked their cigarettes down to their fingertips, talking until they were finally called back indoors.

*

His name was Antonio and he was Hydra. Steve’s unit had found him in a run-down mill somewhere in Eastern Europe, with crates of ammunition and plans to blow up a local village. The war was over, but there were still stragglers, still snake heads that needed to be cut off and burnt at the neck, so nothing could grow back.

He was young, with a passable understanding of English, and dried blood around his mouth from where Steve had used a knife to pry out the cyanide capsule from his teeth before he could bite into it. He was also very good at not answering Bucky’s questions.

He’d been in and out of the cell all day and Antonio was not talking. Bucky actively tried to keep the violence to a minimum – there was something about the feeling of it that warmed him, that made him feel both excited and shameful. It was like a coil in his gut of adrenaline; the possibility of a fight, the sound of gunfire—but these people were not going to fight back. They weren’t going to give as good as they got; they were shackled, hand-cuffed, tied to chairs and just bleeding for the sake of it. For information. For Bucky.

“You’ve had six hours,” Colonel Johnson said, looking through the one-way glass at the Hydra agent. “If you don’t have the stomach for this job, Sergeant—”

“I do, sir,” Bucky said.

“Then get the damn answers out of him, already. We’re on a clock. Rogers’ unit has a new lead and we want what this guy has before we send them out blind.”

Bucky nodded. Get the answers, get the information, give Steve a chance. He could do that.

He slipped back into the cell and sighed, full body. “You’ve got one more chance,” he said. “Tell us what you know.”

The agent spat at Bucky’s feet. “Hail Hydra,” he hissed.

“Fine.” Bucky flicked out his knife and approached the chair. “Time’s up.” He lowered the knife, gently resting it over the agent’s knuckles. “Every time you don’t answer, you lose a finger. We believe there are operational Hydra bases still in Europe, and there have been communications coming from areas in and around Austria. Where are the Austrian bases?”

The agent, Antonio, pressed his lips into a thin line, and lifted his chin. He stared straight ahead, jaw tense.

“Your call, buddy,” Bucky said, and began sawing off Antonio’s middle finger.

*

Becca was married on a Saturday in a small church. Ma cried and Charlotte flirted with Timothy’s best friend. Peggy had gone away for work, and so at the reception, Bucky danced with Steve, laughing and grinning all the while. Steve still hadn’t learned how to dance.

*

They’d been back for over a year when Steve showed Bucky the ring.

He mock-gasped, placing a hand against his chest. “Steven, I _will_ marry you.”

Steve rolled his eyes, setting the ring box down on the kitchen table. Bucky hesitated before picking it up to study closer.

“You think she’ll like it?”

Bucky hummed. It was small and dainty, with three stones, the central one larger than the others. Bucky swallowed and tried to sink the jealousy to somewhere he couldn’t reach it.

It’d only been a year and a handful of months. He’d known there was—something, a spark, between them long before that; but they’d only become something on the day they’d kissed in that car, and Bucky and Steve had landed a plane with a bomb in the ice, barely surviving when they jumped out.

Eighteen months at most and they were getting engaged. Bucky had known Steve for at least twenty-two years and he was still nursing an unreciprocated crush.

He looked up at Steve’s hopeful face. “I think she’ll love it,” he said. “Congrats, pal.”

“She hasn’t said yes, yet,” Steve replied, taking back the ring. “I was thinking of doing it at that restaurant she likes, but I’m not sure. What do you think?”

Bucky tipped his head to the side, pondering. “What about the harbour?”

“What _about_ the harbour?”

“She goes there all the time, doesn’t she? It’s where she likes to think and watch the city from. Not the scummy part, I’m talkin’ about the bit further down. It’s her favourite place in the city.”

Steve considered it for a moment. “That’s a pretty good idea,” he said. “How do you know all that?”

Bucky shrugged. “We’re friends. Friends talk.”

Steve snapped the box shut and tucked it away with a smile on his face. “Thanks, Buck. I’m meeting Peg in an hour, I better go wash up.”

Bucky watched Steve walk away and he had the faintest feeling that he was gonna spend his whole life doing the same.

*

Peggy said yes, because of course she did.

*

They went out dancing and drinking and tearing up the city, painting all the walls red. Bucky refused to sit on the side-line this time and danced with every girl he damn near saw. He swung them, twirled them, twisted them; they came and went, an extension of his limbs, an extension of the song. Around and around and around they all went, and Bucky let the faces blur, the names fall from their lips and straight into the air.

He let himself feel happy for Steve and Peggy, let himself feel proud that his best friend who’d once struggled to get a dame to even tell him the time of day was now marrying the best woman in America. His jealousy simmered, idle, in the pit of his stomach, and he knew that was where it would stay.

Bucky wouldn’t ruin this for Peggy and he absolutely wouldn’t ruin it for Steve. His feelings came second; his were the taboo, the criminal, the unwanted and dangerous ones, and so they’d stay hidden for the rest of their lives if they had to. Bucky knew they had to. Bucky knew he couldn’t destroy everything Steve had, everything he loved.

So Bucky danced with everyone, and Steve danced only with Peggy, and at the end of the night, he chain smoked on the steps of their apartment building and swore to himself, once and for all, that he would get over Steve Rogers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1947 - 1952

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains, right at the end, a brief reference to a past suicide. it is at the end of the conversation in the scene beginning "In the middle of the night, Evie muttered, “Go to sleep” into her pillow."
> 
> chapter amount still says 6 but it's probably gonna be 7 lmao,,, all chapters are gonna be around 5k jsyk

Bucky was thinking about the newsreels as he got dressed.

He pulled on the dress pants. _And in happier news, Captain America is engaged!_ Buttoned up the shirt. _According to their brand new announcement, Captain Steve Rogers proposed to his war-time sweetheart, Margaret Carter._ The socks, the shoes. _Peggy Carter was a particularly famous figure during the war against Nazi Germany, not only for featuring in the ‘Captain America and The Howling Commandos’ moving pictures, but for her leadership on the front._ The tie, the tie, the tie. _They have been seeing each other since the end of the war, and just last weekend, Captain Rogers popped the question.—How nice!—Isn’t that splendid?_ Suit jacket, and he turned to look at his reflection in the mirror. _—Do we know when the big day is?—They’ve kept it rather quiet, I’m sorry to say! But we wish them both the best of luck, of course.—Isn’t that nice?—We’re all very happy for them.—Yes, yes. And I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of familiar faces in the wedding photos. Do you think Sergeant Barnes will be the best man?—Oh, I expect so. And I hear he’s still single, ladies!_

Bucky took a long, deep breath. He forced a smile. It looked real enough.

“Buck, come on,” Steve said from the other side of the door. “We’re already late as it is.”

He swung around and opened the door. “That’s more your fault than mine.”

“I’ve been ready for half an hour!”

“Yeah but your incessant worryin’ all night long made me oversleep.” He pushed out of the bedroom and collected his keys from the kitchen table. “Let’s get going. That car’s not gonna wait forever.”

“Sure it is,” Steve said lightly, following him out of the apartment. “Howard hired it to drive us to the church. It’ll wait as long as we ask it to.”

“Sure, but Peggy ain’t gonna wait for you.”

They jogged down the stairs and out into the car. The church wasn’t too far away, just a few blocks as Steve checked his tie over and over. He looked real good and Bucky burned over it. He pushed the thought away.

“You got the rings?” Steve asked for the hundredth time.

Bucky patted his pocket where the rings sat. “Yes, Rogers. I do. Stop worryin’ about it.”

“Can’t help it. If I’m not worrying there’s nothing else to do.”

“Just sit back and relax, Stevie. It’s your wedding day.”

_It’s his wedding day._ Bucky swallowed. Steve huffed out a smile.

“You know I never thought I’d get married.”

“I know. You’ve always been a dumbass.”

Steve laughed, and lightly backhanded Bucky’s arm. “I’m serious! I always thought I’d end up alone and the weird uncle to your kids.”

“That so?” Bucky didn’t say how he felt the exact same way now; how he’d be the one Steve and Peggy’s kids asked after— _why ain’t he married? Why does he live alone and sad? Why is there blood on all his best clothes?_

They were quiet until the car parked, and then Steve said, “Thanks for being here, Buck.”

“Course, Steve.”

“Really. Thanks for all of it. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you and you know it.”

Bucky spared Steve’s earnest expression a single glance before looking out the window at the church. The doors were wide open and his Ma was standing at the top of the steps, talking avidly with a woman from Steve’s old Catholic church.

“You got me through a thousand fuckin’ illnesses and you got me through a whole damn war.”

Bucky scoffed. “I could say the same about you. If you hadn’t found me in Azzano—”

“Take the compliment,” Steve said. “You’ve done a lot for me. You’ve saved my life more times than I can count.”

“To be fair, you can’t count very high.”

Steve laughed and Bucky couldn’t help but watch. He knew this would be all he could have; he’d never be allowed to reach out and smooth out the crinkle between Steve’s eyebrows, cup his strong jaw or graze his thumbs over his cheekbones. Watching was all he could do.

“We saved each other,” Bucky allowed, softening. “That’s what we do, Rogers. We save each other.”

Steve smiled and squeezed Bucky’s shoulder. “I know I’m marrying Peg today, but you’re always gonna be my best friend, Buck. I’ll always tear down Hydra bases to get you out, just like you’re always gonna be there at my sickbed when my lungs are rattling in the night.”

“Honestly, the biggest relief in my whole life is the fact that you don’t get sick anymore,” Bucky said. “I don’t think anything will ever top that.”

Steve leaned across the seat and pulled Bucky into a hug. Bucky clapped Steve on the back before they pulled apart.

“Let’s get you married, huh?”

*

The changes were small at first. Peggy moved in with them for a few weeks while they apartment hunted, and then a month after the wedding and the vows and Catherine flirting idly with some agent in Peggy’s department, Bucky was all alone in a two-bed flat with only half the furniture. They’d only moved two blocks away, but it felt like miles, and the first few nights in the eerie silence without their low murmuring or clattering in the kitchen made him want to up and move.

So Bucky threw himself into his work in strange tandem to the time that both Steve and Peggy did, too.

“Kids and a house and family life,” Steve said, waving a vague hand and clutching his set of cards in the other, “it’ll all be there once S.H.I.E.L.D. is properly up and running and the remains of Hydra are rooted out.”

So they went to meetings and Peggy led teams and Steve ran ops and Bucky interrogated the suspects. They worked and churned and let the time pass by, the honeymoon phase fading into regular life, their apartments both too big and too small for what they needed them for.

“He misses you,” Peggy said, some six months down the line, a coy smile on her face. “Sometimes he’s reading or drawing or working and he’ll hear me come in and say, _Hey Buck, what’re you thinking for dinner?_ ” Bucky tried not to show how much he loved that.

Bucky stayed in the two-bed apartment for a while after the wedding, then traded down for something smaller, something that meant there wasn’t a whole room dedicated to the absence of Steve. The new place had pale green walls and a squeaky spot by the front door. His new neighbours were nice and quiet; all elderly folks who appreciated his help in carrying groceries or fixing their furniture. They steeped tea or poured him coffee and asked all about him, about his love life and family and what he did for a living.

“It’s a government job,” he’d tell them, then tag on a lie at the end: “Mostly paperwork.”

It was closer to his parents’ house than the last place, and they came round for dinner when he didn’t go to theirs. Tim and Becca got pregnant and Charlotte said there was a boy from the dance halls she wanted to go steady with if he would just work up the nerve to ask her on a date.

Bucky’s days became packed. He was always moving; there’d be an assignment or a mission or a job that needed doing. Peggy would call him into meetings and pretend he wasn’t her favourite of the unit. He’d give orders to his team and watch interrogations from the one-way mirror. He’d go to dinner with Steve and Peggy, go for drinks with Steve and Peggy, go dancing with Steve and Peggy. The other Howlies would come into town and then they’d be out all night, and the next morning Bucky would be rushing to whatever event his mother had told people he’d be at before asking him.

The weeks turned and raced by. He’d dance and slice and work and cut and cook and beat a man bloody then do it all over again. And before he had even realised, it’d been two years since the wedding and Steve was saying, “Peggy’s pregnant. We’re—we’re having a baby.”

*

Falling out of love was a lot harder than falling into it. It was a clawing process, one that felt successful until Bucky saw Steve smile or laugh or talk or breathe, and then he’d be skitting back down the mountain side, digging his fingernails into the rock and hoping for just a semblance of the progress he’d made to be there when the dust cleared.

Bucky’s main problem, in that respect, was that he saw Steve almost every day.

Still, he didn’t stop himself from doing so.

*

Her name was Rosemary Sarah Rogers and she was born on the 18th of January, 1949. Bucky’s leg shook in the waiting room, his eyes staring a hole in the opposite wall. It was near enough to three a.m. when Steve burst through the double doors, his eyes wide, his grin huge.

“It’s a girl,” he said, and Bucky swallowed. _It’s a girl. Steve has a baby girl._

He followed Steve back down the hall, his hand clenching and unclenching. He was deliriously happy. He was incredibly heartbroken. Steve opened the door and led him into the room where Peggy looked as undone as he’d ever seen her: no make-up, her hair flat and sweaty against her forehead. But she was beaming down at the bundle in her arms, a mass of blankets concealing every inch of baby.

Bucky slowed and stepped closer, nerves overwhelming him. _Stevie has a baby girl._

“Bucky,” Peggy whispered in relief, like seeing him was the second best thing of the day. Bucky still ached that he would do this to her; that he would love her husband as she did, that she would trust him and love him and never know. “Come here.”

He moved to her bedside and Peggy raised her arms towards him, the bundle floating up to greet him. He held out unsteady arms and she settled the weight in them.

Now he could see the tiny, round face of Steve’s daughter. Her button nose. Her tiny, tiny mouth. Her eyes were closed in sleep and he swallowed. He was deliriously happy. He was incredibly heartbroken. He was wholeheartedly in love.

“Her name’s Rosemary,” Steve told him softly, standing by his side.

“Rosemary,” Bucky whispered. “Rosie.”

Peggy sniffed, relaxing back and smiling. “She’s only been alive a few minutes and you’ve already butchered her name into something shorter.”

Bucky laughed, surprised, and Rosemary’s eyes opened, latching onto him in a second.

“Hi Rosie,” he said, bouncing her just a little. He’d helped raise three sisters; he knew babies and toddlers and small girls wanting to be big. Her mouth parted just a little, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’m gonna steal you as soon as they turn around, don’t worry.”

*

Bucky’s fist was bruising as he slammed it into the man’s face. There was blood soaking it, soaking the crumpled cheekbone of the suspect, soaking every inch of his vision, of his head and mind and spirit. The suspect sobbed and gave up the information.

Bucky left the cell.

One of the youngest guys in the team, a kid called Frank, handed him a towel as the door shut behind him.

“That was real impressive, Sergeant,” Frank said, as he always did. He was a brown-noser and Bucky had long given up trying to teach him otherwise. He just took the compliment and towel and wiped his hands. “You think I’ll get a shot in there sometime?”

Bucky glanced at Frank, all five foot five of him. “Why would you wanna?”

“Sorry, sir?”

“It’s bad work,” Bucky said, the first time he’d done so out loud. “It’s dirty work.”

“Someone’s gotta do it though, right?”

Bucky hummed, unconvinced, and didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Frankie, the day you get excited to beat a man’s face in is the day you lose yourself.”

Frank blinked. “You don’t like your job, sir?”

Bucky shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if I like it. Matters if I’m good at it. Now, if you’ll run the intel down to Johnson on four, I’ve gotta get home.”

“Sir?”

Bucky wiped the clean end of the towel at the speckled blood on his cheek. “I’m babysitting my goddaughter tonight, don’t wanna be late.”

*

It was Steve who started working less and he did it with no complaint, no hesitation. One day he was working six days a week, going on ops across the globe, and the next he said, “I’m taking a few months off.”

“Yeah?” Bucky replied distractedly, bouncing Rosie on his knee.

“Yeah. The nanny’s great and all, but—”

“She’s not you.”

He hummed, leaning back on the sofa beside Bucky. In his hands was a soft ragdoll that Rosie had dropped a minute earlier. “I don’t wanna miss her grow up.”

“She’s not gonna do all her growing in two months.”

“Maybe it’ll be longer than two months. Or I’ll just come back for the really important ops.”

Bucky sent him a look out the corner of his eye. “You’d rather be a stay-at-home dad.” It wasn’t a question, but Steve nodded anyway. Rosie made grabby hands at the ragdoll and his lips automatically curled into a soft smile as he passed it over.

“I don’t wanna miss a thing,” he said. “I’m sure it’s not what the government want from their one and only super soldier, but—”

“But it’s your life,” Bucky interrupted. “You can do what you want with it.”

He understood. If this little girl was his, he’d quit immediately and spend all his days with her. Rosie took after Steve in the looks department; blonde tufts of hair and the bluest eyes Bucky had ever seen; like entire oceans trapped inside her. Her nose, luckily, was optimistically looking like Peggy’s, and he could see her growing up both tall and beautiful, with her genetics.

She giggled and Bucky leant back against the sofa cushions, pulling her against his chest. She immediately dropped the ragdoll and settled in.

Bucky wanted what Steve had. He did. He knew he couldn’t have it with Steve, but—

But there were plenty other people out there to fall in love with. Plenty of girls he could love and not be cast out from his family and stripped of his title for marrying. Maybe Steve had been his one big love, but it hadn’t stopped him from being attracted to and dating girls in the past.

Now he just had to find one that wanted this. Wanted the homey, warm apartment; wanted the baby and the life; wanted a man with so much blood on his hands it stained.

He looked to Steve. “I’d like to put in the formal paperwork to keep her, please.”

Steve laughed and Rosie copied. “In your dreams, jerk.”

*

It took another year and a half, but in the summer of 1950, Bucky met Evelyn.

They met in a dance hall.

Bucky had gone out with a few of the guys from work; dancing was still the only place he felt that release, that joy spread throughout his whole body, and the moment they stepped over the threshold, he felt at home. A band played on the stage, the lights were down low, banners and balloons were tied up across the walls and a bar was serving discounted drinks for veterans.

He saw her the minute he walked in.

She was flying across the hall, long brown hair streaming behind her; like she was walking on air. Every move, every twirl, every toe tap and jazz hand was perfect and easy, like it was all second nature; like her first language was dance and that was all there was to it.

She was dancing with someone else, so he and his friends got drinks and he watched. Her dress was white and pale blue, it flared out from the waist, ballooning in the turns, revealing long legs, all tanned, with a sunburn line across the knees. Bucky couldn’t stop staring at that; at the line of red down her shins from tanning too long in the midsummer sun.

As soon as the song wound down, he left his glass on the bar and stepped out onto the floor. Absently, he realised there were other men headed over, but he was faster, tapping her partner on the shoulder but looking directly at her when he asked, “May I cut in?”

“You absolutely may,” she said before her partner could answer.

She slipped her hand into his and—it fit. She fit.

The band started up again and Bucky threw himself into the dance. His new partner’s face lit up, their steps matching, their bodies in time, in tune, both of them clocks wound to the same moment, ticking in unison.

“You’re good at this!” she said as he swung her away. She twirled back into his arms.

“So are you,” he replied. “I saw you the moment I walked in.”

She grinned, spinning back out. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I usually attend the halls in Bed-Stuy and Red Hook.”

“Ooh, so you’re a Bushwick virgin?” she asked, clasping her free hand back into his. The beat picked up and they followed.

“Not a Bushwick virgin,” he said, struck by her boldness, by her smile as she said it. “Haven’t been here since before the war, though.”

“Did you fight?” she asked, in that same peppy voice.

“And then some.”

“I was a dancing girl,” she said. At Bucky’s puzzled look, she elaborated. “Like a showgirl. We went to bases all across Europe to dance for the soldiers. Maybe you saw our act.”

“Like the one Captain America did?” Bucky asked, too tempted to bring it up.

She laughed. “Just like that! But our costumes were a little higher budget. Ooh, lift me!” She stepped away and then leapt into his arms and it was automatic; catching her by the waist and lifting her up. When she landed, her face was alight, beaming. _Beautiful,_ his mind supplied.

“I’m Evie,” she said as they stopped, briefly. The song was winding down and they were close; Bucky’s hands at her waist, hers on his shoulders. “Evie Adams.”

“James Barnes.”

And then the song slowed, blending into something longing and languid, the strings taking over from the brass instruments. If anyone came over to cut in, they didn’t notice, and Bucky forgot about his work friends and his drink, and even about Steve—because Evie was the sun, and Bucky needed a little light in his life.

*

“This is a big deal, right?” Evie asked, checking her reflection in the mirror.

“Yes,” Bucky confirmed. “This is a big deal.”

Evie blew out a breath and adjusted the curls in her hair, brushed an invisible speck from her shoulder. “Is this more or less important than meeting your parents?”

He hummed. “More, but less stressful.”

She turned, eyes wide. “I’m going to feel _even more_ stressed than this?”

Bucky laughed, slipping his hands over her hips and tugging her towards him. “It’s just Steve.”

“It’s not _just Steve._ It’s Steve Rogers. Captain fucking America.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No,” Evie replied. “My mother’s dead. I kiss you with it, though.”

He smiled, leaning in, their lips brushing softly, not wanting the red stain around her mouth to end up about his. She pulled back suddenly.

“I can’t meet Captain America. He’s gonna be so tall!”

“That’s your problem?” Bucky laughed. “His height?”

“That and my sister and I had his poster on our bedroom wall,” she replied. “That’s _embarrassing._ I had my—you know— _first time_ in front of that poster.”

Bucky’s laughs filled his apartment while she pouted, but eventually a smile was drawn from her lips and she huffed, checking the mirror again.

“Come on,” he said. “You look great.”

“What if Captain America doesn’t like me?”

She didn’t sound that worried about the notion, so Bucky rolled his eyes. “He’ll only dislike you if you call him Captain America to his face. His name’s—”

“ _Steve,_ I know. And he’s your best friend since childhood. And he used to be really tiny and filled with righteous anger, you’ve said. _But,_ if he doesn’t like me—”

“Then we’re not dating anymore,” Bucky agreed. “Gotta have the best-friend-slash-famous-war-hero stamp of approval.”

“Does Peggy Carter have _your_ approval?”

“Peggy Carter is the scariest lady I know,” Bucky replied. “If she even thought for a _second_ that Steve needed my approval in any way, shape, or form, they’d be divorcing by tomorrow.”

Evie snorted out a laugh as the knock on the door sounded. They both straightened and Evie took a final glance at her reflection before Bucky opened the door, revealing Steve, Peggy, and baby Rosie in her pram. They smiled widely and introduced themselves, and Bucky gestured for them to go ahead as he locked up the apartment, turning around to see Evie looking back at him wide eyed, mouthing _It’s Captain America!_

The five of them shared a picnic in the park, during which Bucky immediately took custody of Rosie and didn’t give her back.

“If you’re going to hog my baby you can at least feed her,” Peggy said, passing over Rosie’s lunch and a cloth. “I swear,” Peggy continued, looking to Evie, “he has held her more than I have.” They laughed and no one questioned the truth in the statement or wondered just how much time Peggy spent at work.

“So, what do you do?” Steve asked as they ate.

“I’m a dancer,” Evie replied.

“Oh, that makes sense,” he immediately replied. Evie cocked her head to the side, and Steve shrugged. “Always figured he’d end up with a girl who can dance.”

Evie pressed her arm up against Bucky’s, while he kept his eyes on Rosie.

“Is there a lot of work for dancers?” Peggy asked.

“Oh, there was more during the war. I was a USO girl—best money a dancer can get is touring for the army. I perform most nights at a ritzy hotel in Manhattan, but there are auditions for another tour group, so I think I’m gonna go out for that.” She picked up a strawberry from the plate—Bucky would’ve never imagined a picnic like this a decade before, with fresh fruit and nice wine, but he supposed the pay checks they got for their dirty work jobs meant they could afford things like this now.

They ate their picnic, laughing and telling jokes all the while. Steve had a lot of questions for Evie, and she had many in return—mostly about Bucky, and not at all about the war. Most people who met them wanted to know about the missions, the Hydra bases, the movies they made and the comic books written about their adventures. Evie’s big brother had owned the comics, and her little sister a Bucky Bear; the line of plush bears in army uniforms that funnelled money into their missions, raised support for the cause, and also came about after a poll deeming Bucky the preferred member of the Howlies for girls and women between ages nine and twenty-four. But she steered clear, stuck to lighter topics, and found little interest in finding out the gory details.

He appreciated her for that.

He appreciated her for a lot of things, in fact.

*

When Evie met his family a few weeks later, they fell instantly in love. Catherine _insisted_ she dance with her, and baby Thomas, Tommy for short, Becca’s son, born two years before Rosie, giggled and gurgled the whole time she held him. When Bucky finally pried his only nephew away, they both pouted, but this was another child that he adored, and that he was planning on stealing when his sisters turned their backs.

“Steve likes her, right?” Pops asked as they smoked in the garden after dinner, the sun setting past the house behind their own.

“He likes her,” Bucky confirmed.

“Then I guess you’ve got a one-hundred percent approval rating,” he laughed. “She’s a good one. A girl like that doesn’t come round very often. I wouldn’t let her get away.”

*

Bucky talked civilly over the table in the cell and the suspect squirmed until he spilled. Bucky blew out a breath as he left the room, finding Peggy and Steve standing by the one-way mirror, Frank somewhere behind them, clutching a towel that wouldn’t be needed.

“That went rather well,” Peggy said.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied. “Well, one in a hundred has to, right?”

Steve’s look was worried, but he brushed them both away.

*

In the middle of the night, Evie muttered, “Go to sleep” into her pillow.

“I am asleep,” Bucky replied.

“No, you’re not. I can hear you thinking and it’s keeping me awake.”

She’d moved into his apartment in the spring of 1951, and his things were now their things. His bed was their bed. His table was their table. His books were their books. He found he very much liked sharing his life with another person again.

His love for Steve still sat in the hollow of his chest, but it was smaller now, quieter, with the louder love of Evie surrounding it. Bucky had thought loving her would diminish what he felt for Steve, and maybe it did, somehow—but instead, he just found that he could love two people, and that was going to have to be okay, because he couldn’t find a way not to.

Now, Bucky sighed through his nose. Evie rolled over in bed to look at him. He could just barely see her outline.

“What is it?” she asked.

Bucky knew and didn’t know. He felt it and didn’t want to acknowledge what he felt. He was hollow, he was full. He was overflowing with bad things. He felt the warmth of blood on his hands, but they were entirely dry.

He swallowed. He bit the bullet.

“Did I ever tell you what I do for work?”

She hummed. “Something government-y. Agent-y, right? Like Steve and Peggy?”

“Sort of. Steve’s still a soldier, really. His body was remade for war so it’s what he does.”

Evie yawned. “Part-time soldier?”

“Yeah. Only when they need him. And Peggy’s the leader of her division. I’m—I’m in intelligence.”

“Like a spy?”

“Not really. More—” He huffed. If he said the words aloud, would she hate him for it? Would she be disgusted with the violence that he wallowed in?

Evie shifted, nudging at his arm until she could sink under it, her head pressed against his chest, her hand freezing and resting over his heart. Bucky’s arm was curled around her; she was tall, lean, always a little bit cold.

“Do you know what we did in the Howling Commandos?”

“Mm. Specialist group,” she replied, having heard the stories before. “Invaded Nazi bases, destroyed them, climbed on a plane with a bomb.”

“Yeah, but sometimes there’d be Nazis that we needed answers from when we were in Europe. We couldn’t just take them back to our base, let someone else ask the questions. So, we’d make a camp, or find some abandoned shack—there were plenty of abandoned shacks on the front—and we’d…we’d interrogate them.”

“Okay.”

“It’d get—it’d get violent.”

“Mm. They were Nazis.”

“Right. But I was good at it. I was good at getting answers. So when we had prisoners, the other Howlies, they’d just say, _Barnes, you got this one?_ No one really liked seeing it, you know? Made ‘em feel sick sometimes. It’s different when you’re just—shooting someone, to when you’re hurtin’ ‘em not to kill, just to… just to hurt.”

Evie was quiet for a beat before she asked, “So you interrogate? That’s what you do now?”

“Yeah. That’s what I do now.”

“Do you like it?”

Bucky fell silent, then, and was probably silent for too long. _Did he like it?_ There were things he liked, things he didn’t; things he revelled in and hated himself for later. The silence was probably an answer in itself, but he still said, “Sometimes,” and Evie still curled tighter into his side, a tired form of comfort, and he still took solace in the fact that she hadn’t moved away, that she hadn’t frozen in his embrace or told him to leave the violence back in the war, to find something new to be good at, because she already knew, really—she knew that he’d been picked out for extra training because he was an excellent shot, and so the one thing in this world he was better at than anything was killing, and you can’t just ask people to give up the only thing they’ve got.

He sniffed. She pressed a kiss into his shoulder.

“When Charlie came back from the front,” she whispered into the dark, “he was different. We thought it was just shellshock—that’s why he got sent back, you know? ‘Cause he was scared of everything and couldn’t cope with the trenches anymore. He used to talk about it all the time. Tell us in detail about sitting in his own urine and watching his friends die. I know you—I know you were there, too. But he came back and it wasn’t long before he missed being over there, no matter how scared he was. ‘Cause…’cause fighting was what he was good at. He never had any other kinda training. Just guns and war and stuff. So that was all he could do, all he _liked_ doing, and he came back to a place where that’s not really possible.” She paused to shift and hook one of her legs around his. “When he killed himself, it was ‘cause he had all this violence he wanted to get out but couldn’t, so the only way he could direct that was at himself. I think… I think you don’t have to be in a job you don’t like forever—but if it helps you, if you can do the one thing you’ve been trained to do, do it _well_ , do something for our country at the same time, well…” she trailed off.

“Well?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” she decided. “I’m not gonna love you any less for it. But if you don’t wanna be there, why don’t you tell Peggy? Ask for a different job. Something else you’re good at that helps you sleep a little easier.”

Bucky hummed.

He could tell Evie had shut her eyes because he could feel her eyelashes on his bare skin.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “I love you, too. _Please_ sleep, would you? For me?”

“Oh, if it’s for you,” he said, and her soft giggle was the last thing he heard before he fell asleep.

*

Steve was his best man, and Evie’s bridesmaids were comprised of his three sisters and her one. Rosie and Tommy were the flower girl and page boy. His Ma cried. His Pops clearly put a lot of effort into not. Their wedding photo ended up on the front page of the New York Times.

It was 1952. He loved Evie. She loved him. That was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah thank u for reading!!! pretty please talk to me in the comments they're the only thing that sustains me during lockdown and i really wanna know what u think!!! next chapter is equal parts domestic bliss and fighty and it's got some of my favourite little moments in it,,, it'll be up when i've finished writing chapter 6,,, so maybe monday or tuesday
> 
> also i know the fears right now with bucky and steve getting married and having babies and bucky's in love but do not worry,,,,,, this is a slow burn and we will get to our endgame stucky,,,,,,, i promise thee


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1953-1956

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok we're thinking 8 chapters now i don't know what to tell you

In Azzano, something had happened to Bucky Barnes.

It had occurred on a metal table under a singular bright light. Arnim Zola had stood over him, his beady little eyes drilling holes into Bucky’s body as he stole his blood, sliced his skin, injected unfamiliar blue liquids into his veins. Bucky became delirious quickly. He would never give up secrets and he would never let the scientist win.

He said his name, his number, his rank, and those were all the words left inside him. All the words in the world until—

“Steve?”

Bucky ignored the torture and experiments for as long as he could. When you’re in a fight, you don’t complain about healing a little faster than your friends. You don’t complain about the cuts closing up and scabbing over within a day, about the fingernail that grew back in a week after the last was ripped out, about his feet blistering and healing on every journey.

You complain a little about how it takes more to get you drunk now, but even that doesn’t warrant telling the medics that you’re anything less than healthy.

But Bucky could lift more now; he was stronger, he could run faster, he was quicker to solutions and his finger was steadier than ever on a trigger.

He didn’t want to add it all up; collate the facts and come to the only possible solution—but eventually, he had to. Eventually, he said to Peggy in the privacy of her office, “I think I have what Steve has,” and had to get tested to prove himself right.

And he was.

He was right.

It wasn’t exactly the same as Steve, of course. But it was—close. In 1943, Hydra had managed to synthesise a working super soldier serum; one that didn’t kill or lower the life expectancy of its host; one that improved him, healed him, made him _better._

Steve had remained silent as the doctor told them this. Evie had, too. Peggy only promised that no one would know; that she would hide the evidence, burn it all, if he wanted.

“Don’t burn it,” he said, voice rough. “Just—can I have it?”

When he returned home, Evie had held him tight, and he had stared at his reflection in the hall mirror. Later, he read through the paperwork again; even if they hid the truth—which they would; Bucky didn’t want to go through what Steve had, didn’t _want_ to be the hero of the nation—it would become clear over time. Maybe the serum was a little less perfect than Erksine’s, but it got the main points right. It got—immortality right. Or, almost.

His cells healed themselves over and over, just like Steve’s. His body rejected growing old, rejected disease and illness and the natural progression of life. He thought about how he and Steve would stay young for a lot longer than their wives; that maybe they’d outlive their children, their families, and be the only two left from a generation of young angry boys growing up in Brooklyn.

He thought he would feel excited about that prospect, but instead, Bucky dreaded it.

The world was not a kind place to either of them, not really, and he didn’t know if he could live for two hundred years in it.

*

Bucky hadn’t thought that domestic life was for him, but he discovered quickly that he was dead wrong. The Barneses moved out to the suburbs only a few weeks before the Rogers-Carters did, too. Their houses were a mere road away from one another, separated by evergreens and the kind of quiet roads that children could play soccer in. Their neighbours were friendly, eager people, who recognised Steve and Bucky from the movies, who had Bucky Bears and comics of their own, who had war stories and appreciation to give at a moment’s notice.

The two families grew up side by side, and from the outside, they were normal, all-American folks, with children and cars, who liked dancing and picnics and going to bars together. They always babysat each other’s kids, always carpooled to work together, always had dinner every Saturday night, before their families came for Sunday lunch. They seemed like normal people, leading normal lives; their work was largely government-related, though Mrs Barnes taught dance to children and adults alike at the local community centre, and their children were loud, intelligent kids, who rode their bikes down the sidewalk and were enamoured with their neighbours’ pets.

Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter on Elmhurst Drive had their seven-year-old, Rosemary Sarah, and their three-year old, Richard James, while James and Evie Barnes on Cogsworth Avenue had their four-year-old twins, Charlie Steven and Sylvia Jane.

It was 1956, and Bucky Barnes was thirty-nine. He didn’t look a day over twenty-five.

*

“Are they late?” Bucky asked. “I think they’re late.”

“They’re probably not late,” Evie replied, though she wasn’t looking at the clock like he was. The clock clearly read seven-thirty-four. That was four minutes late.

“Peggy has never been late a day in her life.”

“And Peggy will continue not to be,” a new voice said. Bucky turned to look at the front door as Peggy let herself in. She glanced at the clock. “Your clock is four minutes fast.” Rosie and Richard ran past her and into the house, as they did every morning.

They both said, “Hi Bucky,” as they passed, Rosie much faster than her younger brother, and Richard aiming directly for Evie’s legs to embrace.

“Steve’s in the car,” Peggy said. She looked past him, to where her children had ran through the archway into the kitchen. “Be good for Aunt Evie!” she called after them, laughing in an exasperated way when Rosie called back, “We won’t!”

“I’ll meet you at the car,” Bucky said, before Peggy vanished back out onto the porch. He rolled his eyes at Evie, who smiled back good-naturedly, before following the kids into the kitchen. He pressed a kiss to Charlie and Sylvia’s heads, said his goodbyes, and kissed his wife before heading out.

“Enjoy teaching the elderly how to waltz,” he said on his way to the door.

“It’s actually salsa day,” Evie replied. “They get _very_ frisky.”

He pulled a face that made her laugh before pulling the door closed behind him.

The day began like all the others in this way. Peggy or Steve would bring their kids to Bucky’s while the other waited in the car, and Evie would give them breakfast and take them two blocks away for school. They all went to work; Steve three days a week, Bucky five, and Peggy usually all seven, and return to the Barnes household where the children would be playing or doing homework or learning to dance on wobbly feet.

This day, however, was a little different from the ones in the past, because as the three of them walked into the Manhattan office, Peggy said, “Barnes, can I talk with you in my office?”

Steve shrugged when Bucky sent him a questioning look, and followed Peggy through the main office, where agents sat at their desks already, and into hers. He shut the door behind them and waited until Peggy was seated to raise his eyebrows.

“Your transfer,” she said. “It’s approved.” He blew out a breath and she found a slip of paper from her briefcase. “Roberts has decided to move to a desk job, and we’ve been looking for a new right-hand for Steve’s operational unit. I’d like it to be you.”

She handed over the paper, and Bucky scanned it fast. The pay increase was monumental, but so was the amount of time he’d spend away from home. Still.

“Thanks, Carter,” he said. “Really.”

“I know. I just—sit for a minute, would you?” Bucky took a seat opposite and Peggy steepled her fingers in thought. “Johnson said you didn’t give a reason for why you wanted to move—also, you went to Johnson instead of me, and I’m a little offended about it.”

He exhaled a smile. “It’s nothing, really.”

“James Barnes, I have known you for over a decade, God help me, and I know it’s not _nothing._ ”

He hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about this transfer for—what, six years? More? Longer than I’ve had kids, that’s for sure. It’s—it’s soul-sucking, Peg. It’s draining all the good outta me.”

She studied him. “Luckily for all of us, you have an unlimited supply of good, Buck.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“Good thing I am, then.” She sat back in her chair. “I wasn’t sure about your transfer, but if it’s what you want, I’m supportive. I remember choosing the intel job for you because you didn’t want to go back into combat scenarios, but—”

“I’m ready,” Bucky said. “I am. I haven’t had nightmares in years, I’m still just as good a shot as I was on the front—”

“Better, even, according to your scores.”

“I couldn’t have been in the ops unit back then and I know that. But I can’t be an interrogator now. I don’t think you know what it’s like, picking up your kid and having to put them right back down ‘cause you could’ve sworn you just got blood all over them.”

Peggy sat very still as she said, “I think I know that feeling quite well, actually. Congratulations on the transfer, I’m sure Steve will be thrilled to have you. And I’m glad to know someone will be there to keep an eye on him.”

“You know I will.”

“I do.”

*

The Barnes’ dining table was not big enough for all the Barnes family, but they sat at it anyway. In the oldest generation, Ma and Pops were still going strong, though Pops had been feeling under the weather recently, and Ma’s hip had been giving her trouble since a fall down the stairs. Their four children, Bucky, Becca, Charlotte and Catherine had all married off, and the eight-person table was already seating ten before they’d even counted the five Barnes grandchildren so far.

Still, they squabbled and cooked and ate together every Sunday; all of them driving out to the suburbs where Bucky had the biggest table and the nicest kitchen of the lot, though Charlotte _insisted_ her tilework was much prettier to look at. Bucky cooked and Evie set the table, pouring out drinks for the guests and occasionally ducking into the kitchen to get in the way or steal a sip of Bucky’s wine.

Then they ate together; a cacophony of laughter and gossip. Timothy and Becca Proctor would huff regularly at Tommy for eating messy, while David and Charlotte Murphy sang Miriam’s praises. Bucky and Evie Barnes would eat with their twins on their laps, piling extra onto their plates to feed them from, while Ricky and Catherine Torres left the room every five minutes to check on baby Valerie, sleeping in the living room. It was riotous and loud every time; fourteen people crowded together and talking over each other, and as they finally funnelled out at mid-afternoon, full and tired, Bucky would say, “We’re never hosting again,” only to do it all over again the week after.

*

On Saturdays, they’d have dinner at Steve’s, who’s table definitely fit them all, including the four children. Those dinners were quieter but no less joyful; Steve and Bucky would start drinking at five, because they could, and Rosie always stood on a chair and helped make the food, though often was more of a hinderance than anything else. Still, Bucky would kiss the side of her head and Steve would wrap a large arm around her to set her back on the floor, and she’d ask what’s for dessert before the main course was even cooked.

Some weeks, other friends joined them. Angie would stop by for a meal and a drink, or a Howlie passing through the neighbourhood. When Dum-Dum was in town, the kids would scream with glee as he picked them up and span them fast, and when Morita was around, his son and wife would come with, and the whole night would be full of exaggerated and child-friendly stories of war and combat and adventures in Europe, when they walked through forests for weeks feeling like the last people on Earth, or revelled nights away in London with the kind of life-drunk people that could only be borne from the constant threat of over-head bombs.

And though these dinners were loud and cheerful, they were also, often, pointedly unfinished. An eight-person table, with four children, two Barneses, and one Steve Rogers, who couldn’t help but look at the place setting made up for Peggy, who rarely made it back from the office in time.

*

They were somewhere in Kazakhstan, crawling through dirt and dust with their guns. It didn’t feel much like the war, really. The scenery was different, the people were different, they hadn’t been walking for days or carrying heavy packs for ten hours at a time. This was a two-day op: in and out, save the target, gather the intel, call for a ride.

They were seven hours in and had finally found the base. It was a little off the beaten track, outside a small town near the border with Russia. Police patrolled with large guns and children played in the street. The coordinates led to a clothes manufactory, and the group set up half a mile away to wait until dark.

Green had headed closer to scout out the perimeter and the other four waited in the quiet, drinking their water in the late afternoon sun and checking and rechecking their equipment. Bucky watched Steve pace, and clocked the tension in his shoulders, the way the inconspicuous clothes hung differently to how his Captain America garb used to. He hadn’t worn it in a decade, not in combat, not unless he was doing an important interview or speech.

He was still—hell, he was still beautiful, and Bucky ached for thinking it. He was married. He had children—wonderful, excellent, hilarious children whom he loved. A stunning, reliable, exciting wife whom he _loved._ And yet—

“Sit down, would you?” Bucky griped. “Your pacing is making me dizzy.”

Steve huffed and plonked down beside Bucky, their shoulders brushing as he went. It had been almost twenty-five years since Bucky was fifteen and cleaning the blood from Steve’s eyebrow as he ran his mouth about whatever bully had needed to learn a lesson. Bucky had frozen in the sudden realisation, had felt sick, then elated, then sick again. _He_ was sick, he was sure, because all he wanted to do as Steve said _I couldn’t let him just get away with it, Buck_ was kiss him on his bruised, bloodied mouth.

Bucky had managed to let those feelings take a back seat. He’d managed to hide them and swallow them and let them fade, but he knew they were still present. Knew that sometimes he wanted to kiss Steve senseless, wanted to hold his hand or lie, quiet, in his embrace. But they were feelings he’d never act on, never let see the light of day.

_Maybe one day,_ he’d resolved, _in two hundred years when folks are a little nicer about these kind of things._ Hell knew they had the time. Hell knew they’d probably be alive and kicking to meet their great-great-great grandchildren and tell them all about their youth.

“You look tense,” Bucky said, quiet. The other two men were hunched only a few metres away and he didn’t want them eavesdropping.

“I’m not tense.”

“I didn’t say you _were_ tense, I said you _look_ tense.”

Steve sighed through his nose. “You ever think things ain’t what they’re cracked up to be?”

Bucky blinked. “What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t mean anything—”

“No, come on, what do you wanna say?”

Steve seemed to roll the words around on his tongue. “It’s just—the only time I see Peg anymore is on the drive to work.” Bucky blinked. “I know her job’s important and it keeps her busy, and I respect that. She does a hell of a job, but—if I’m seeing her for an hour a day on the drive in, how much do you think Rosie and Rich are seeing her?”

“Is she really gone that much?”

Steve shrugged. “I don’t even bother waiting up for her for dinner anymore. Is that pathetic? That I don’t even trust she’ll make it in time for that? I just serve up her plate and put it away immediately. I don’t even make her a place at the table.”

“On Saturdays you do—”

“On Saturdays, Rosie sets the table,” he pointed out. “She still has hope that her Mom’s gonna be there for family dinner, but more often than not, she’s not there on a Saturday, and on Sunday her brother’s there but she’s not.”

“Sorry, pal.”

“Yeah. Well. I’m thinking of giving up the job altogether.”

“What?”

Steve shrugged. “They deserve to have at least one parent around, right? And I know Evie’s great at looking after them—but she shouldn’t have to.”

“She’s happy to do it, you know that.”

“I know, but maybe I should be there for them, too.”

Bucky didn’t know what he was gonna say next, be in a _you should talk to Peggy about this_ or _are you unhappy in your marriage?_ but then Green came jogging back over and said, “The workers just left for the day. There’s still three cars in the parking lot, and only the top floor has lights still on.”

Steve clapped his hands together and heaved to his feet. “Alright. Let’s get in position.”

The fight, when it eventually came, set Bucky’s pulse skyrocketing. It was the same high he got from the interrogation cell, but it was different now. It was people _fighting back,_ it was bullets flying _at him_ and not just away. It wasn’t the merciless violence he enjoyed, but the thrill of the fight. It wasn’t the pointless bloodshed, but the battle; the win and the lose, the fight and die of it all.

And then Steve got shot in the chest.

“STEVE!” Bucky rattled off three shots before darting through the fray, to where Steve had stumbled back and slumped against the wall. The blood was pouring thick and heavy out the hole in his chest. _Dumbass super soldier,_ Bucky thought, _not even wearing Kevlar._ He clapped his palm over the hole and forced Steve forward to check for an exit wound.

“Shit,” he said, not finding one, before pushing Steve back down.

“I’m fine, Buck,” Steve said, though not very convincingly. He was breathing heavy, his breaths coming out laboured.

“Call a medic!” he yelled over his shoulder. The fight was winding down now, the guns going off less frequently. Outside, the sky was dark, but on the top floor of the factory, the office space was lit with yellow fluorescent lights, glowing off the ugly carpet.

Bucky helped Steve onto his back to get a little help from gravity and pushed firmly over the wound.

“You’re not allowed to die,” he informed Steve, matter-of-factly.

“Thanks for the memo,” Steve forced out.

The gunfire stopped.

“I think that’s the last of them,” Green said. There were footsteps across the room; running, like they were checking the bodies.

“Help’s on their way,” Watson added. He pulled off his jacket and shoved it into Bucky’s arms. “Put that on the wound—it’ll do better than your hand.” Bucky did as he was told, trying to hide the fact that he was shaking. _Not Steve,_ he said in his mind. _You’re not allowed to take him._

“Come on, punk,” Bucky muttered. “Just keep breathing for me. You’ll heal up in no time—I bet your body’s almost done it, too.” Steve stared at him, his blue eyes flickering out of focus. Bucky held his gaze. “It’ll be Friday when we get back,” Bucky continued, as the other boys raced around him to find a first aid kit, secure the target, check the dead weren’t breathing. “We can do dinner at my place this week, yeah? You can have a rest and Evie and I can look after the kids. I’ll call Michael, too—cancel Sunday lunch for you guys. I think you’ll need the rest, buddy. Hey, now, keep your eyes open. I’m not ruining Watson’s jacket just for you to conk out on me. You remember what I told you when your Ma died? I’m with you ‘till the end of the line, and this ain’t it, right? That line’s got a hell of a way to go.”

Bucky rambled on and on, and slowly, surely, Steve’s hand rose from the round, shaking, and landed heavily atop Bucky’s. He was sure, for a moment, that it was a goodbye, but he refused to accept that, so he kept talking, and Steve kept staring, and eventually help came.

*

Pops died two weeks later. Nothing quite as violent as Steve’s almost-end. He went to hospital because he couldn’t breathe and six hours later he was gone; his final breath rattling out of his lungs while his family stood around, watching and crying and holding each other tight as anything.

At the funeral, Steve said, “If you need anything—”

“I know.”

“End of the line, buddy. You’ve got me the whole way.”

*

Sylvia and Charlie loved to dance; they inherited their parents’ genes. Luckily for Rosie and Rich, they _didn’t_ , as if they had, they’d be as left-footed as their parents. All four of them attended Evie’s after school dance classes, and all four of them twirled and span and toe-tapped their way through their childhood, one after the next.

When the class recital came around, Steve and Bucky and Peggy booked the night off to watch, but at the last minute, Peggy took a phone call in her office, and then said, “I’m sorry,” and Steve sighed in a disappointed-but-not-surprised kind of way.

Bucky waited out in the hall while they argued in her office, and after, Steve was the only one to leave.

“She’ll regret missing this,” he said later, as Evie stood on the stage in the community theatre, in front of the parents of all the kids, and introduced the first age group. “She’ll regret missing a lot of things.”

The younger group, including the twins and Rich, were a bit of a mess. They had the spirit, but none of them the timing or the confidence. One wandered off stage halfway through, and another burst into tears, but Charlie and Sylvia powered through, giving it their best shot, even if they got half the moves wrong. At the end, everyone clapped anyway. The older groups had a better go of it, and Rosie’s class danced to their song almost in sync, most of them getting the moves right. Rosie beamed the whole way through.

After, they walked home, Rosie’s hands tucked in Steve and Bucky’s, running and leaping as they lifted her off the pavement, swinging her forward. She yelped each time and giggled right after.

“The most talented ballerina I’ve ever seen,” Steve told her as the twins ran ahead. “And I was once invited to see The New York City Ballet.”

“You fell asleep halfway through,” Bucky recalled.

“Yeah, well you ditched me immediately after and flirted with the ballerinas backstage, so you’re not one to talk.”

Beside him, Evie laughed as Rosie gasped in shock.

“You had _other girlfriends_ before Aunt Evie?” she asked in horror.

Bucky grinned down at her. “I had plenty of other girlfriends,” he replied. “It’s just your Dad who didn’t date anyone ‘till he met your Ma.”

Rosie scrunched her face up in thought and Bucky thought, _if I stole her right now, Steve probably wouldn’t be able to catch me._

She then said, “Daddy said he was waiting for his perfect dance partner.”

“Well your Dad can’t dance,” Bucky informed her, “so he needed to find someone patient enough to teach him.”

Steve scoffed and swung Rosie’s hand in his. “I still can’t dance.”

“Not my fault Peg’s a bad teacher.”

When they got home, Rich, who’d been half asleep in Evie’s arms the whole trek home, said, “Look! Mama’s home!”

Steve’s smile vanished and Bucky’s stomach flipped. Rosie, too, frowned, as they approached the house on Elmhurst Drive. Peggy could be seen through the front window, the yellow lights on and the curtains open, as she walked around the kitchen.

The twins slowed outside the house, waiting for their parents and Steve dropped Rosie’s hand to take Rich from Evie. They said goodnight, and Rosie reluctantly slipped her hand from Bucky’s, before slumping up off the path. Bucky sent Steve a raised eyebrow.

“She wasn’t very pleased to find out Peggy wasn’t coming,” he whispered, though Rich seemed to have fallen right back asleep.

“You’ll be alright?” Bucky checked.

Steve nodded. “We’ll be fine. Just—things to work through, you know? Not every relationship is sunshine and roses.”

Bucky watched Steve walk up off the drive before Sylvia squeaked and he caught her as she ran over, swooping her up into his arms. They started off home, though he couldn’t help but look back and watch Steve and Peggy through the kitchen window, their faces tense and cold.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1960-1965

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick warning: firstly, there is a brief reference to suicidal thoughts in the scene that begins with "In 1961 Charlie came home from school...", secondly, i do not know anything about the vietnam war. i did a whole bunch of research but it was a real struggle and yet the next chapter is going to contain so much vietnam war stuff because i'm a DUMBY.
> 
> this chapter, however, is more about nightmares.

Bucky’s nightmares started up again two years after joining Steve’s operational unit. Life was good, _really_ good, so it made sense that the universe wanted to knock him back down a few pegs.

At first, it was just something short and sudden; Sylvia getting hurt, Charlie’s sudden scream, Evie’s shriek in the dark. He’d jolt upright after those and then check his wife’s pulse, dart into the kid’s bedrooms and crouch by their sides, listening to their breathing. Then, it got worse.

The next round of nightmares, a few months after the first, were visceral. They were Steve getting shot in the chest, his blood slick between Bucky’s fingers. They were a car crash, the glass shattering inwards, his children thrown forward against the front seats. They were Peggy, showing up at his house in the middle of the night, gun in hand, demanding _why_ Bucky was so insistent on loving Steve and ruining their marriage. After those ones, he’d lie awake in bed and count the ceiling tiles. He’d study every inch of Evie’s face and wonder why he couldn’t love her and only her. He’d steal away in the night and walk the neighbourhood, stopping outside Steve’s house and staring at the darkened windows.

A year after the nightmares began, the ones from the war made a reappearance; the hollowed out church in Italy and the young girl he held while she bled out; the soldier whom he killed because his agonised howling as he died became too unbearable to listen to; the table and Arnim Zola’s squirrelly face, _Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038_ running around and around and around, the only words he’d ever know. After those ones, there was nothing left to do but lie in bed and let the horror quake through him, let the tears slip silently, let the memories eventually fade, the feeling in his limbs return.

He hesitated about seeing a psychiatrist, though he knew he could get one through his job. But Bucky knew if he was diagnosed with anything—be it shell shock or trauma or something worse—they wouldn’t let him go in the field again. And although he loved domestic life; loved his wife and his children and his house in the suburbs, the trigger-happy feeling was deep-set in his bones.

Bucky Barnes needed the fight to survive and he couldn’t give it up, even when Evie started noticing the nightmares.

*

In 1960, the first Howling Commando died.

They hopped on a plane to go to England for the funeral, and the Howlies stood in a solemn line, watching James Falsworth’s coffin be lowered into the ground.

“Some kinda cancer,” Dum Dum said later around the table in the nearby English pub they’d found. “Unlucky bastard.”

“Survives a war and gets caught by his own lungs,” Gabe agreed with a sigh.

They poured out shots for each of them, sparing one for the empty seat where Falsworth might’ve sat, had he still been alive, and toasted him, each making speeches and recalling the days when he fought by their sides and was more than just a colleague, but a friend, a brother.

“You two are gonna have it worst off,” Gabe said an hour later, smoking beside Bucky in the beer garden out back.

“Hm?”

“You and Rogers. Now, I’m sure Dum’s still gonna be kicking when he’s a hundred, but you two—Barnes, you’re forty and you don’t even look thirty.”

“Forty-three,” Bucky corrected. Forty-three with eight-year old twins. Forty-three and married eight years. Forty-three, with three sisters, three brother-in-laws and five nieces and nephews between them.

He still felt young, though. Still felt like he was twenty-two and about to head to his shift on the docks. Twenty-two and saving up for those sketching pencils he’d give to Steve once he got past his latest bout with pneumonia. Twenty-two, with nothing on the horizon but a night dancing and another one nursing Steve back to health.

It was twenty-one years later and he still occasionally woke up in the morning, praying that Steve hadn’t died in the night.

“I’m just saying,” Gabe mused, “you two are gonna see a lot of funerals.”

“Thanks for the cheery thought.”

“At least he’s your best friend,” Gabe continued. “I’d hate to be stuck with someone I didn’t like for eternity. At least you two got each other.”

*  
  


In 1961 Charlie came home from school and announced that he was gonna be a soldier when he grew up.

“Just like Dad,” he said proudly, still clutching his book bag and grinning up at his father, who was staring back, hoping the clenching of his chest and sudden, mind-numbing fear that was racing through his head wasn’t obvious.

He was frozen for just a little too long, though, and Charlie’s smile faltered, and Evie put her hand on Bucky’s arm and said, “Buck?” like a whisper, and he blinked out of it, going for a smile and failing.

“Well, _I’m_ gonna be a dancer, like Mama,” Sylvia interrupted. “I wanna be a ballerina. Mama, can I have ballet classes?”

She hummed, smoothing back Sylvia’s hair while Bucky stared at his son with a racing heart.

“I’d think so,” Evie mused. They had the money for it. Hell, since the war, with Bucky’s job, they had the money for a lot of things. “Though you have to promise to keep up with it, give it your real and honest best shot.”

Sylvia agreed, ecstatic, and asked if she could run round the corner to tell Rosie that she was gonna do ballet just like her, and Evie agreed, so long as her brother went too. The minute they were out the door, she turned to him, brown eyes ringed with concern. She was looking more her age than he was; almost thirty-eight to his forty-four, crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes promising a life well-spent, her hair half the length of when he met her, the first grey hair found two weeks before. Still so heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

He loved her and she loved him, and she whispered, “Bucky? What’s going on?”

He shuddered out a breath. “He can’t be a soldier.”

Evie’s expression turned into something akin to pity and he couldn’t look at it, turning away and blinking hard to get the images of the trenches and the blood and his friends’ bodies broken into pieces out of his mind.

“Bucky—”

“He _can’t._ I won’t let him.”

“It won’t be your decision.”

He turned on her, suddenly. “They idolise it. Have you noticed that? They _idolise_ the shit we went through. They say, _I wanna be like my father,_ when their father pulled shit akin to war crimes—but it was okay ‘cause it was for the allies. I’d have ten life sentences if I did now what I did then.”

“The Nazis—”

“I _know_ about the Nazis,” Bucky hissed. “I know all about them. I know what they looked like, what they ate. I know what their voices sounded like when they pissed themselves looking down the barrel of a gun. Hell, I know what their piss _smells_ _like_ , ‘cause it comes right back to me every night. I know it all, Eve—I know Nazis and I know Hydra, and I know what we did was _right._ That it was for a greater cause. That if I hadn’t done my part, we wouldn’t have this, and those kids wouldn’t exist, and—and I did what I had to do. Don’t you think I _know that?_ ”

He was breathing heavily, and Evie’s face had shuttered when he yelled. Still, her hands were gentle when she placed them on his arms, and her face masked the pain she must’ve felt when he flinched at the touch.

She spoke slowly, softly: “Charlie doesn’t have to be a soldier. Shit, I don’t—I don’t like the idea of him doing it, either. The war killed my brother, and it tore something from you before I ever got to see it. I don’t want that for him, I don’t. But if he grows up and wants to be like his Daddy—”

“Then we’ll have raised him wrong,” Bucky spat. Evie flinched this time, but he didn’t care. He was seeing it all over again; seeing the funerals and the mass graves; the pits they dug ‘cause there was no way of getting the bodies home; the severed fingers and lifeless eyes. He also saw the trigger, heard the bang of a gun, felt the recoil against his shoulder – the things that made him useful, talented, worthy, were things that made him sick to his stomach.

“His father ain’t no one he should be like.”

“That’s not true.”

“His father killed _hundreds_ ,” Bucky ground out. “His father’s got so much blood on his hands he can’t touch anything without it smudging on ‘em—and _his father_ liked it.”

“Bucky—”

“No, why fucking lie? I did two years in that war and then the next decade torturing people over it. Yeah— _torturing._ ‘Cause that’s what that shit came down to. Peg put me in a job where I made people bleed and spat in their faces and deprived them of food and light and sanity until they gave me fucking answers, and I was _good_ at it. I was _excellent_ at it. And it don’t matter if they’re not fighting back, ‘cause they can’t when they’re shackled to chairs, Eve—‘cause I’ve been trigger happy since the day they shoved a rifle in my hands and told me to shoot. Is _that_ the person you want Charlie to be like? Is _that_ the person he’s gotta be emulating? The person he needs to grow up to be? ‘Cause that person has nightmares every night of the shit he did, and _that person_ has stared at that fucking Colt we got hidden away in the study more than once thinkin’ ‘bout using it to make them stop!”

There were tears on Bucky’s face and tears on Evie’s. Her hand was pressed against her mouth to hold back the sobs and he just stared at her, at his wife, because there was nothing else to do.

Two years at war, eleven in interrogation, four in ops. His kill count wasn’t in the hundreds, it was in the thousands. There were so many lives on his hands that he hadn’t seen the skin in years.

Then Bucky’s eyes flickered past Evie, to the wide-open front door and his eight-year-old son, eyes like saucers as he stared at them.

“Charlie,” he choked, tears falling.

Evie span to look at their son and her face crumpled. Sylvia then appeared in the doorway, skipping with a smile on her face. She ran into Charlie and stopped to look between them all, then frowned.

“Are you getting a divorce?” she asked.

Then Charlie ran to his room, his feet pounding on the stairs, and Evie said, “I’m getting Steve,” and darted from the house.

Sylvia approached Bucky slowly, but he wasn’t moving, he couldn’t anymore, and let her wrap her arms around his middle, the highest they could reach, and forced himself not to flinch. His shaking hands held her back and he said, “No, we’re not getting a divorce,” and pressed a kiss into her hair.

That night, Bucky tucked Charlie into bed, and then exhaled a sigh as his son curled up beneath the blankets, his grip like steel around his Bucky Bear.

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” Bucky whispered, though he still felt shaky. The hours had passed but it hadn’t helped his nerves to feel any less frayed. “I’m sorry you had to see us like that—see me like that.” He was crouched beside the bed, smoothing Charlie’s hair away from his face. “I want the best for you and your sister, you know. I don’t want you to have to do the things I did; to be put in the same position and regret it.”

Charlie’s eyes shone in the dark. He whispered, “You don’t want me to be like you.” Bucky swallowed, his mouth pulled down. “Are you a bad person?”

Bucky sniffed, then said, “Come on, budge,” and shifted onto the mattress of the twin-sized bed. Charlie moved over so he was between the wall and his father, and as Bucky stretched his legs out across the bed, he rested his head on his father’s thigh, popping his thumb into his mouth.

Bucky stroked Charlie’s hair, rolling the question over in his head. “Sometimes I think I am,” he admitted at last. “A bad person, I mean. Sometimes I think about the things I did on the front, or the things I did for the government after, and think that I’m no better than the bad guys I stopped. But—then I think about you and Sylvie. I think about your mother, about our big family and all the people we love, and I think that I couldn’t be a bad person and have all that. I couldn’t be a bad person and have that much love in my life. Uncle Steve says I’m a good person who had to do some bad things for good reasons. We saved the world, you know. We protected everyone from the bad that was coming out of Europe, and we’re all better off for it.”

“Is Uncle Steve right?”

Bucky hummed. “Uncle Steve usually is.”

“But I can’t be a soldier?”

Charlie was looking up at him like he always did; like Bucky was the whole damn world spread out before him. His father was a Howling Commando and he knew it; both the twins did. They played Howlies in the playground at school, both of them arguing at who got to play their dad’s role each time; they read the comics and had Bucky Bears of their own – two different designs so they wouldn’t get mixed up or argue. They knew what Bucky had done, what Uncle Steve had done, and they were proud of it. They hero-worshipped it.

But it had been sixteen years since that war, and though Bucky often felt like the same terrified soldier, he knew he was a different person now.

He said, “I don’t want you becoming one for the wrong reasons.”

“What’s the wrong reasons?”

“Doing it because I did, because you wanna—wanna _honour_ it somehow. Doing it because you’re made to, or because you feel like you ain’t got another option. You _always_ got another option. If you wanna be a soldier, go to war, you gotta want that for you, not for me. You could be—be anything, and as long as you’re doing it because it’s what _you_ want, I’ll make my peace with it.”

“Even if it is a soldier?”

“Even then,” Bucky lied.

Charlie nodded into Bucky’s lap, and said, real quiet, “I don’t know what else I wanna be.”

“Well that’s alright. You don’t gotta know that yet. You’re only little. You got all the time in the world.”

Bucky stayed there until Charlie drifted off to sleep and then he stayed a little longer. He thought about Steve walking through the door that afternoon, concern written all over his face, and how they sat down in the study and Steve went through the drawers of the desk until he found the Colt, unloaded, the bullets stored separately, and they talked and talked until Bucky agreed to see the psychiatrist and be taken off active duty, and Steve apologised, though they both knew it wasn’t his fault really, saying, “I should never have asked you to follow me after Azzano,” to which Bucky replied, “If you hadn’t asked, I would’ve gone anyway,” and they both knew it was the truth.

*

By the next year, Bucky was off Steve’s ops unit and on desk duty. He had enough experience and enough super soldier serum to be more than just a paper-lackey, and S.H.I.E.L.D. knew it. They gave him a badge and a gun and let him keep his Sergeant rank rather than switching him over to Agent like the others. His job became a little like Peggy’s, but less senior; he watched out for agents under his command, gave them orders and started searching for high priority targets to be brought in, one by one.

He was a good shot still, though he rarely pulled his weapon out, and only ever went into the field during an arrest or matter big enough to actually warrant his presence. He made calls and signed off on ops; people called him _Sir,_ and occasionally he had to even be persuaded round by Steve and his unit as to why one of their missions should be green lit.

The job was busier, and some nights he got home too tired to read Sylvia to sleep or play ball in the garden with Charlie, but he _did_ always make it home each night, and the nightmares began to fade.

He saw the psychiatrist once a week, and with her they worked through the turmoil, the trauma. _It’s more than just shellshock,_ she’d tell him, _and we’ll get through it together._

Every weekend they still had their dinners; Saturday for the Rogers-Carter clan and Sundays for the Barneses. There were so many of them now they had not even the slightest hope of fitting in the living room, so in the summer they ate out in the garden; Ma, her four kids, their four partners, and the seven children that ran through the grass, giggling and laughing in their Sunday best clothes, though Bucky hadn’t stepped foot in a church in years.

And slowly, life began to get better, and that day with the shouting and the crying grew distant, and Bucky had almost forgotten what it would feel like to be faced with war again.

*

And then in 1965 America entered the Vietnam war.

In the years in between, the Barnes family lived happily, peacefully. Bucky went to work with Peggy and Steve each morning, though as time went on, more and more often it was just Steve in the car, honking the horn, and Peggy off in D.C. setting up a new S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, pretending that she wasn’t considering moving the headquarters there. Meanwhile, Evie taught dance to children and adults alike; she repainted the lounge and directed the builders on construction of the extension out the back. She organised the fundraisers to save the local community centre and raised even more for the marches about integrating the schools in the state.

The Cold War raged in the background; instrumental to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s work, but not something Bucky was willing to bring home, where the kids were growing up and growing fast; the twins twelve and riotous; with big dreams and louder voices. Charlie’s dream of being a soldier was abandoned; just an eight-year-old flight of fancy sparking Bucky’s imminent breakdown, and now he wanted to be a pilot, a doctor, a writer, a sailor. Sylvia’s ideas were wider, even more expansive somehow; she still danced ballet, but wanted to play sports, too; be a lawyer or a teacher or maybe even a farmer in some rural place far from the city.

They were still thick as thieves with Rosemary and Richard Rogers, fifteen and eleven-years-old respectively, both fighters like their parents, and ready to take the world by storm.

Bucky heard it through the grapevine before they announced it on the news: America was joining the war in Vietnam. He didn’t know, exactly, if it was their place to stick their head in – especially with the ongoing war with the Soviets – but they were already preparing twenty-five thousand plus troops to send away, and Bucky was feeling sicker by the day.

If he were anyone else, conscription would’ve passed him by – but he was as strong as he’d ever been, as lean and fit and healthy. For a forty-eight-year-old, he was still as spry as he was at thirty, still as handy with a gun, too, and he spent the days pacing, waiting for the news.

Evie would watch him, as would the kids, and she’d give him all the platitudes he could ask for, though they fell on deaf ears.

The day the draft notices were sent out, however, Peggy stopped by his office.

She was as glorious as ever; her head held high, her walk elegant. She wore a blazer and skirt, her red lipstick a little less red and a little more pink than in their youth. Her hair was even going grey at the temples, though she wore it with pride, with a regal air that she never had grown out of.

“You can stop your jittering,” she said as she entered. It was true he hadn’t done much work in the previous few weeks; he’d just spent his time alternating between his office and his psychiatrist’s, worrying and thinking, thinking and worrying. Peggy shut the door behind her as she continued, “Despite your significant enhancements, and the fact that you still look just like you did the day we met—maybe a little less tortured and beaten, though—you won’t be receiving a conscription notice.”

He eyed her. “How do you know?”

“Because I put in a word on your behalf.” Bucky swallowed, staring. “And so did your psychiatrist. I had her draft a memo stating that you’re not fit for active duty—which is true enough, I’d say. You might get called upon by your government to act as a strategist, or for PR events—Lord knows the American public like to see a war hero in uniform—but you will not be stepping foot outside this country unless it is by your own hand.”

She’d settled in the chair opposite his desk, and now he yanked her out of it, pulling her into a tight embrace and eliciting a surprised laugh.

“I take it you’re happy.”

“Thank you,” he said in her ear. “Thank you.”

“Of course, James,” she whispered. It had been some time in the past decade that she’d started calling him James and stopped calling him Bucky, like the rest of their colleagues that referred to him by name. “You’re family.”

“You are, too.”

“I know. Which is why when Steve asks you for a favour, you must say yes.”

Bucky pulled back, blinking, and then it dawned on him. “He’s going, isn’t he?”

“Not—not to fight the war,” she said. “To help.” Bucky frowned and held Peggy’s at arm’s length, searching her face for answers. She explained, “After dithering over it for a decade, he finally handed in his resignation letter this morning.”

“What?”

“Yes. At first I thought it was so he could spend more time with the kids—that was why he started part-time and consultation in the first place. But, no, he said he’s going to go help.”

“Help _how?_ ”

“Do you remember what Europe looked like, when it was bombed to hell and empty?”

Bucky nodded. Of course he did. The barren wasteland of abandoned villages and forgotten towns still followed him daily.

“The Cold War has taken many lives and will continue to take more, and America’s involvement with Vietnam is just the next stage of that. There will be great losses; monumental losses, and I am of the opinion that napalm is far more dangerous than any super soldier could hope to be.” She levelled him with a steady gaze. “He won’t stand by while people are in danger in that way. He’s spent the last few weeks petitioning to not involve American men in a battle like that, and now he’s failed—”

“He’s going to protect them.”

“And the Vietnamese alike,” Peggy confirmed. “He always was willing to throw himself into the jaws of death for the slightest twinkling of hope.”

“Then I’ll go with him.”

Peggy sighed, amused. “And you were always willing to throw yourself in there with him, weren’t you? No, James. You won’t. Steve has to make his own decisions, and you are not going to go near that battlefield.”

“He can’t go out there alone—”

“I don’t like it anymore than you do. But I urge you, listen to what he has to say first, consider the favour he will ask of you, and _then_ make up your mind.” Peggy always was the most rational of the three.

*

Steve visited the Barnes household that evening, sometime after the children went to bed. Bucky showed him through to the study and poured the glasses of scotch – one for him, and one spiked with a little of Howard’s miracle mixture for Steve. They settled onto the couch by the wall, the lights dim, and drank.

“I talked to Peggy,” Bucky said when it was clear Steve didn’t know where to start.

He nodded. “She said she would.”

“So?”

Steve pulled a face and downed the last of his glass. He winced and settled the glass on the side table, before looking to Bucky.

“Rosie and Richard,” he said. “I need them—while I’m gone, would you look after them?”

Bucky blinked. “Of course, Steve. I mean, I’ll look out for them always, you know that.”

“No, no, I mean—I’m going away for God knows how long. It’s something I need to do.” He saw Bucky’s sceptical look and added, “I _do_ , Buck. I was given all this for a reason. I’d be long dead by now without Captain America and we both know it. But I asked for this, and if I can use it to do some good—”

“You already _do good_ —”

“Not like this. Not for them. I saw the recon footage from the battles and I knew instantly that I had to help, that I had to do something for them. And I told Peggy as much, and we talked about it for a while, but then she said, _We’ll have to hire that nanny after all._ ”

“You mean—”

“She’s a busy woman, Buck. I wouldn’t ask her to give that up.”

“But for your kids—”

“She’s director of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Then who—” Bucky stopped short, the realisation dawning. “You want them to live here?”

Steve’s smile was something akin to heartbroken. Bucky knew the feeling somehow; about the stretch between duty and family, and how it felt to choose the wrong one. He’d felt it in the small moments, like taking overnight ops on days Charlie had designated for their weekly board games, or when he’d decided not to wake Sylvia upon returning in the early hours of the morning, and she had awoken, crying, because she thought he wasn’t home yet. This was like that, but worse—because Steve was choosing to leave when all he really wanted, all he had wanted for fifteen years, was to stay at home and raise his children.

And Bucky realised that he couldn’t go and protect Steve, do the duty he’d sworn himself to, if he was protecting Steve’s children at home. So he said yes, and he embraced Steve until his arms hurt, and he promised to not let a single thing happen to them, and a week later, Steve had slung a duffel bag over his shoulder and climbed into the belly of a cargo plane, with the hopes of coming back alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! i'm super struggling with creativity right now as lockdown has drained me of just about everything, so pretty please leave a comment and talk to me and tell me things and what do u think of bucky's breakdown and what do you think of the ending of this chapter and do you LOVE steve and bucky's children or is that just me because i adore them all individually and collectively and i'm very proud of all of them
> 
> okay, wash your hands, stay home, have a nice day ily


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1965-1966

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9 chapters now. god. i really don't know guys, i'm writing chapter 8 and i just can't imagine ending it yet so. 9 chapters. maybe 10.
> 
> this is the vietnam war chapter. i tried to research but america's involvement in the vietnam war seems complex and stupid so i did the best i could. what's most important, i think, is bucky interacting with children. so. focus on that maybe.
> 
> also this chapter is longer than all the others so far which surprised me because it doesn't feel like it and it's only like, a year and a half/two years of bucky's life. anyway. have fun with that.

Sometimes, Bucky stared at the photos on the wall. Across the Barnes house, there were many; all shapes and sizes, all grainy and greyscale. There was the one of his Ma and Pops on their wedding day, another of the Barnes children and their parents, all small and gap-toothed, dressed in their Sunday best. There were photos of Evie and her siblings, of her parents, of her on a stage with the other girls in her dance troop; American flag costumes dazzling even in black and white.

There were photos from the war, too. Of the Howling Commandos, lined up, of them toasting in a European pub. One large print of the Howling Commandos moving picture poster, another of their debut comic book cover. There were a few of just Steve and Bucky, too; of them in a camp somewhere behind the front line, of them side by side, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, Steve significantly smaller and looking like he’d had the snot beaten out of him.

Large family photos filled the wall in the dining room. Bucky, Evie and the twins; the seven nieces and nephews in the Barnes clan smiling at a picnic; the siblings and their partners; the whole family, crammed together. Then there were the Rogers-Carters, too; the four of them beside the four Barneses, inextricably linked together.

There was a particular favourite of Bucky’s in the study though, sitting on the desk he rarely used. There sat the photo of he, Steve and Peggy, young and fresh-faced, finally back home in Brooklyn after the war. They were grinning in that photo, their eyes alight with promise and hope; there would be no more deaths, no more gunfire, no more bloody shootouts and the fear that one of them wouldn’t be coming back the next day.

He looked at that one often while Steve was away in Vietnam, trying to simply pay back the debt he owed to the universe for giving him the serum and a body capable of so many things. Bucky looked at that photo and wished he could go back; that he could live it all again, that he could feel that excited for the future, and sometimes, in his darkest moments, he wished he could have told Steve how he felt, just to see how he would respond.

*

Bucky was working from home the day Rosie’s school phoned.

“Hello, is this James Barnes?” the call began, as he returned to his seat at the kitchen table, the phone cord stretching far.

“This is he,” Bucky replied, looking back over the paperwork in front of him. It was all highly classified, to do with Soviet targets amidst the Cold War, and he really shouldn’t have been working on any of it in his own home, let alone away from the study and its deadbolt on the door.

“I’m calling from Midwood High School today about Miss Rosemary Rogers.”

“Is there something wrong?” Steve had only been gone two months, if he had already broken his eldest—

“Miss Rogers has been involved in a fight,” the secretary said. “If you could come to the school and collect her, the Principal would like a talk with her guardian.”

Bucky checked the time. He was only working from home because Evie had gone into Manhattan for a few days to spend time with her father, now he was sick. She and her sister were needed at home to help around the house, and Bucky would be looking after all four kids while she was gone.

It was a little past noon, so he said, “Sure, I can be there in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you very much, Mr Barnes,” and then the dial tone.

Bucky drove over to Midwood High School – the expensive private school Steve and Peggy had picked out for their eldest; one Rich was likely to end up at, too – and was there by half-past, shaking the nerves from his hands. Rosemary had been in a _fight?_ Was that like her? He didn’t think so; sure, she and Rich were the rowdy kind of children who believed they could take on the world and win, but she’d always been incredibly sensible, too, and good with words. Both of her parents were excellent at scathing wit and retorts, and she’d picked it up a lot quicker than her mild-mannered brother.

Bucky just couldn’t fathom her hitting another student—not without good reason.

He clenched and unclenched his hands as he pushed his way down the hall, suddenly reminded of the day Rosie was born; Rosemary for all of three minutes before Bucky entered the room, all nerves and love and heartache and gave her something shorter.

His goddaughter was sitting on the plastic chair in the hallway by reception, and she looked up in a panic when she heard his footsteps. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the right one bruising softly, and her lip split. Bucky swept over, on his knees, tilting her chin into the light before he said a word.

“Jesus Christ almighty,” he decided on, wincing at her face.

“Does it look bad?” she asked.

“You’ll still be the prettiest girl at the ball,” he replied, “but you might get a shiner for your trouble.”

She hmphed and shot a look to the reception desk, sitting around the corner.

“What am I gonna get told in there?” he asked gently, resting his hands on her knees.

“That I started it.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.” Her gaze held a challenge, asked him _Do you think I wouldn’t?_ He rolled his lower lip before nodding.

“Got a good reason?”

“She’s a bitch.”

“Right.”

If he weren’t Uncle Bucky, but instead her father, Rosie would’ve likely hesitated before swearing at him, before even admitting to the crime straight-faced. But the relationship he had with Rosie was different to the one he had with her brother, or even his own children; he wasn’t the _fun uncle_ or an older brother – he was Bucky. He told her the truth when she needed to hear it, and she did the same for him. Some time long ago, when she was barely a teenager and hiding out in her room, it had been Bucky whom she eventually opened the door for.

It had been Bucky whom she told the story of her first kiss – one that Peggy and Steve might not even know – and the tale of the boy who touched her thigh and got a broken finger for the trouble.

They didn’t coddle each other, not with childish words or falsehoods about his trauma, and they loved each other dearly. He thought, _I could take them all away right now, and steal all the kids at once._

He stood and nodded to the receptionist.

“James Barnes?” she asked, and he confirmed. “I’ll let Principal Davis know.”

The receptionist vanished behind the office door and Bucky sent one long glance at Rosie.

“How’s your technique?” he asked, and she held up her fist in response; thumb on the outside, completely straight with no tilt at the wrist. He nodded appreciatively and then they were both called into the office.

Inside, Davis sat behind his desk, and a set of parents stood over the shoulder of a dark-haired girl, sporting a swollen eye and a red face. Bucky sat Rosie down in the spare seat, shook Davis’ extended hand and then those of the other parents.

The girl was called Violet, her parents Andrew and Eliza, and they were ten different kinds of pissed off. Bucky thought, secretly, that it looked as if Rosie had started the fight and finished it, too.

“Mr Barnes—”

“James, please,” he said, though it was no better really.

“James,” Principal Davis agreed. “We tried to get in contact with Mrs Rogers—”

“She’s Mrs Carter,” he corrected. “And she’s at work right now.”

“Right, yes, and she directed us to you. I understand you’re not Rosemary’s parent—”

“I’m her guardian,” Bucky said, and nothing more. There was a moment of quiet, waiting for the unspoken _her mother is too busy with work and her father is traipsing around Vietnam so I’ve taken the children for the time being and the twins have only just stopped complaining about having to share their rooms._ It didn’t come.

“Violet has given her account of the situation,” Principal Davis continued after a beat. “She said that Rosemary attacked her entirely unprovoked and didn’t stop even when she was on the ground.”

“That’s a lie,” Rosie said.

“Are you calling my daughter a _liar?_ ” Eliza hissed. Her husband patted her arm and held her back as the Principal gestured for Rosie to continue.

“Violet spat in Jessica’s lunch,” she said, matter-of-factly. “She’s been spitting in Jessica’s lunch every day for three weeks now, and I thought it was about time she received some consequences for her actions.”

“How dare—”

“I have _not_ —”

“Miss Rogers,” Davis said levelly. “It is not your job to dole out punishment. You should have told a teacher.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Rosie said. “Why would I do that?”

Bucky blinked and Davis said, “Because the teacher is equipped to deal with the situation.”

“Why? Because they’re an adult?”

“Yes, precisely.”

Rosie scoffed. “If adults were good at paying attention to kids, Jessica wouldn’t have gone without her lunch for three weeks. I shared mine with her every day, because the _adults_ weren’t paying attention.”

The room was quiet for a moment, and Bucky stared at his goddaughter, trying to think of what to say. It stood to reason that a child of Steve Rogers had a fundamental mistrust of authority, but Bucky had never _been_ the authority before. He used to just laugh along, agreeing, cajoling, and then maybe sneak the matter in with Sarah Rogers or their teacher when Steve wasn’t around, but now—

Now, Bucky didn’t know what to do.

It seemed Principal Davis didn’t know, either, as he stammered out a few syllables before deciding on, “Nevertheless, violence—violence isn’t the answer here.”

“That hasn’t been my experience,” Rosie replied evenly, and for a second, Bucky was sure he was looking at a smaller, blonder Peggy Carter. “I tried reasoning and non-violent confrontation, and Jessica’s sandwich was desecrated anyway. However, violence has been particularly effective. I don’t suppose Violet will be spitting in Jessica’s lunch anymore now that she knows I can – and will – beat the shit out of her.”

“Rosie—”

“Rosemary—”

“Miss _Rogers_.”

Bucky coughed, and then crouched by Rosie’s side. “Nice speech and all,” he said quietly, quickly, “but I’m gonna give you some advice.” She eyed him. “If you apologise for using violence, we get out of here a lot quicker.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong—”

“You hit that girl.”

“That _girl_ —”

“Was awful to your friend every day,” Bucky agreed, a little louder. “And I’m sure she will be rightfully punished both by the school and her parents.” He sent a pointed look to them both. “But you hurt her, and by the looks of things, that eye ain’t gonna be opening for a day or two.” Violet let out a whimper. “You know I agree with the acts of vigilantism – squaring up to bullies is in your genes; but there’s teaching someone a lesson, and there’s plain hurting them.”

Rosie studied Violet for a moment, and Bucky risked a glance at her parents, looking equally distraught and interested in what he had to say.

“Dad would’ve hurt her if he were me,” Rosie grumbled, her last defence.

“If your Dad were you, he would be back in his skinny little five-foot-nothing body, and he would’ve _lost._ Your Dad was all fight and no follow through. And if it was your Dad now—well he’d know that words got a whole lot more bite in them that fists ever could, and that sometimes, talking to an authority figure ain’t a bad thing.”

By the end of the meeting, Rosie had mumbled out her apology, and Jessica had been pulled from class so Violet could apologise to her, too. They were both sent home and suspended the day after, and then the two families left out the front of the school and headed back to their cars. Andrew insisted on shaking Bucky’s hand one last time and saying, “You know, I watched all your movies when I was a kid. It’s good to know you made a life for yourself,” and then they were all packed away in their cars, and Bucky was watching Violet’s family drive off while he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking.

After a moment, he said, “Wanna get ice cream?” and Rosie burst out laughing.

They drove to an ice cream parlour with linoleum flooring like a chess board and bought ice creams that they ate in the car by the harbour, watching the workers on the docks and the boats drifting out in the water.

When he was halfway through his sundae, Bucky said, “I wanna talk about authority for a minute.”

Rosie shot him a confused look. “Why?”

“‘Cause I think your perspective’s skewed.” He took another bite and thought over his words carefully, before speaking. “You don’t trust adults.”

“Right.”

“How come?”

“Well, why would I?”

Bucky shrugged. “I dunno. It’s a good question. I trusted adults when I was your age. My Ma and Pops. I trusted Steve’s Ma, too, in fact.”

She scoffed. “Well what has my _Ma_ done for me lately?”

Bucky stopped. He lowered his cup of ice cream and looked at Rosie carefully. She was fifteen years old; sky blue eyes, her blonde hair shoulder-length with short bangs to match Audrey Hepburn’s from that movie she was in the month before. They’d gone as a family, the six of them, even though Rich and the twins got bored halfway through – but Evie, Bucky and Rosie had watched until the end, enraptured. It was all in colour and Rosie had been trying to emulate Holly ever since. She looked a little like Peggy and a lot like Steve; though she didn’t have his big nose or wide shoulders.

It occurred to Bucky that maybe Rosie was a little more Steve’s than Peggy’s, and that maybe she felt the same way too.

He swallowed. “If you wanna talk about it, this is your opening.”

Rosie frowned and then her brows furrowed as she glared a hole into her ice cream. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, no?”

“No.”

“Oh, well I thought it was about how your Dad’s left the country to go do his duty and help people, and despite your Mom not going anywhere, you’re living with me anyway.”

Rosie’s eyes turned to slits as she looked up at him.

“Is it not that?” Bucky asked, though he knew it was. “Did I get it wrong?”

She hesitated for only a second before the dam burst. “Does she not _want_ me?”

“What?”

“Well that’s gotta be it, right? She doesn’t _want_ us. She doesn’t! If she did, we would be at _home_ with _her._ But all Mom has done since I was little was work and not come home. I mean—I mean! It’s obvious, right? She didn’t want kids and she didn’t want me, and I must be some kind of _burden_ because—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Bucky said, dumping his cup on the dashboard and reaching over the central console. Rosie, crying into her ice cream, fell easily into his embrace, and he rubbed her arms and shushed into her hair until the crying subsided, and she was left hiccupping.

“Your mother loves you a whole lot,” he told her, not letting go.

“Wish she’d tell me once in a while.”

He hummed. He didn’t want to make excuses for Peggy, didn’t want to say that her job was _really hard_ , because he was sure that Rosie knew it already, was sure she’d had this conversation before, knew all the justifications of Peggy being absent and not visiting nearly as much as she should’ve since Steve went away.

So instead, he said, “Peggy wanted you. You don’t remember how she looked the day you were born, but it was like she’d loved no one before that moment. No one could compare to what she felt for you.” Rosie sniffed, her face pressed into his shoulder. “You were so tiny, you know. I’d half expected a big, super-soldier baby, but there you were, tiny and looking a whole lot like your dad did before he ever got the serum. God, you were their whole world. Mine, too, for a long, long time.”

Rosie shifted to look out the front window where Bucky’s ice cream steadily melted.

“Jessica said her mother was her best friend,” Rosie told him, “and it didn’t sound pathetic—like she had no friends in school. It sounded like—like they really, really got along. Like she trusted her and loved her and knew all sorts of things about her. Well, I don’t know what that’s like. I don’t know Mom’s favourite colour, or favourite meal, or anyone she dated before Dad, and she doesn’t know a thing about me. I bet she couldn’t even guess at my favourite book. And Dad—he tries, I know he does. He’s said a hundred times that he only works half the week so he could spent the rest of it with us. But—but he’s _gone._ He’s—he’s fucking _gone._ ” A fresh sob burst from her mouth and Bucky held her tighter, setting his chin against her hair and holding back tears of his own. Because he knew what it was like to miss Steve Rogers; he knew it better than anyone.

“And I’m so—I’m so _angry_ ,” Rosie cried. “I don’t wanna be—but I’m so mad at him for going, and I’m so mad at her for staying but sending us away anyway. Who _does_ that? Bucky—Bucky, who sends their children away? I didn’t do anything wrong, I—I—I tried so _hard_. I got such good grades, and I got that scholarship, and I learnt piano and Italian and it means _nothing_ to her. She just _leaves._ No—No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t even show up in the first place.”

Bucky’s mind shot back, suddenly, to a few years before when Peggy had missed the dance recital, and Rosie’s face had turned stormy when they arrived home to see her in the kitchen. He’d always assumed Rosie would move on; she must’ve been eleven at the time, and it had been so long ago. But, then again, Rosie had also set Peggy’s place at the table every night, _especially_ for family dinners on weekends, and continued to do so long after Steve had simply stopped even making her up a plate. Rosie was not an adult, no matter how Bucky treated her like one; she was a child whose mother had been absent from her life, not because of a lack of love, but because her sense of duty was more prominent.

And Rosie was a child whose father eventually succumbed to the same thing; whose love for his children almost—but couldn’t—outweigh his responsibility to the world.

And Bucky thought, then, that he had been willing to do the same thing for less. He had been willing to follow Steve into the jaws of death again, to leave his children in Evie’s hands for the mere chance of keeping Steve safe; a duty to one man over the duty to his children. A decision that Bucky would’ve regretted, a decision that Bucky was relieved he was stopped from making.

So he held Rosie until their ice cream had melted entirely and told her that he loved her, that he was there for her, that he would talk to Peggy and make sure she knew how she was making her children feel. And then when Rosie was done crying, they drove to pick up the other kids, who crammed themselves into the backseats with chatter and stories all tumbling over each other, who yelled _what’s wrong with Rosie’s face_ and _did you get ice cream without us_ until Bucky turned the car around and got new ice creams for everyone, because he really couldn’t say no to the children he loved.

And that night, at home, they all wrote letters to Steve at the dining room table, that would be bundled together into one and sent off the Vietnam on hope and a prayer that it would reach him, and Bucky wrote in his _Come home. For once let your duty to yourself outweigh your duty to the world and come raise the girl who cried because both her parents are gone and the boy who has asked three times this week when you’re gonna be back. Jesus Christ, Stevie, come home._

After they’d all gone to bed, Bucky stretched out his bedroom window, knowing he could see a single window of the Rogers-Carter house if he tried. He could see it lit yellow, and ducked into Rosie’s room, where she was reading under lamplight, though he could’ve sworn her light should’ve been off twenty minutes before.

She reached for it when he walked in, caught, and he waved the thought away.

“I’m just going to see your Mom quickly,” he said. “I’ll be gone five minutes.” He kissed her forehead to diminish the worry on her face and then trooped round the corner to her house, where Peggy’s car sat out front and the upstairs light glowed. She opened the door warily, in her dressing gown, and relaxed when she saw him.

“Oh, James,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to talk to you,” he replied. “I’m here to ask you to do better by your kids.”

Her face shuttered but she let him in anyway.

*

As summer drew close, the kids played in the back yard more, they laughed more, they worked harder in class with the hopes of better grades. It was June when the twins had their entire class over to the Barnes house for their birthday, and July when they all celebrated Independence Day with the neighbourhood. Bucky laughed as Rich became exasperated over every person who wished his father a happy birthday—“It’s not until _September_ ,” he complained. “Why does everyone think it’s today?” Bucky didn’t have the time to delve into the marketing of the Howling Commandos, and Captain America’s birthday being the fourth of July for publicity, so instead he swung an arm around Rich’s shoulders and steered him towards the lemonade stand.

In August, there was a parade in the city, and a fair in the park. Rosie started running each morning and Sylvia took up guitar. There was a dance show on TV every day at three p.m. that the kids watched ritualistically, and there was one manic weekend when Becca, Charlotte _and_ Catherine had planned for a vacation with their partners, and Bucky and Evie were given nine children to watch all at once.

Throughout it all, Peggy became more present. It was slow at first, after the night when Bucky chewed her out, when she cried and he held her and then set the record straight some more. But then, over time, she took more days off work and went home at regular hours. Occasionally, the Rogers children would sleep at their own house, and Peggy would take them for entire weekends to bond and drive into the city. She was at the birthday parties, and there for the neighbourhood barbeques. She was the beacon in the storm when old Miss MaCarthy’s house got burgled and she took days off to march beside Evie in the integration protests.

Still, Steve wasn’t there, and much like Peggy’s empty plate at the dinner table, it was palpable; Bucky was aware.

He hadn’t responded to the letters they’d sent, nor had he sent any of his own – not since the first month when he sent a single postcard with a short note. But every now and again, it’d be on the news; _Captain America Sighted in South Vietnam; Captain America Clears Landmines in Farming Village; How Captain America Saved an Entire Platoon._ He was out there, coming and going, being caught in brief glimpses, short moments, and nothing more

Bucky watched the news avidly, daily, waiting to see his face, or an arm, or the back of his head in the background of a photo.

And then summer turned to fall, fall into winter, and Steve wasn’t back for Christmas. Peggy slept at her own house but came over at seven a.m., the earliest Bucky decreed the kids were allowed to be awake. They unwrapped presents and made hot chocolate and pretended that they weren’t sorely missing a limb.

And that was how it went until the summer after, Steve gone for a year and a half with a grand total of five letters home and sixteen news appearances. It was the summer of 1966, Bucky was forty-nine, and Captain America was dead.

*

He was at work when he found out.

Bucky was in a briefing room with ten other agents, sitting at a long coffee-marked table and zoning out. It wasn’t that this wasn’t interesting, but it wasn’t, in fact, interesting. And Bucky had better things to be thinking about; like his wedding anniversary at the weekend, or the large-scale macaroni art project Sylvia was dutifully working on now school was out. And then the door opened, and some agent Bucky couldn’t name entered without knocking, his eyes wide with panic.

“Sergeant Barnes, sir,” he said, gasping. “Director Carter needs to see you.”

“Can it wait?” Agent Thompson asked from the front of the room. It really was an important meeting, even if Bucky wasn’t paying attention.

“Sorry sir, no sir,” the agent replied. “It’s about Captain America.”

Bucky was out of his chair and gone from the room without another word. He marched down the hallway as the fear rose in his throat; he had to swallow it at every corner lest he choke and drown right there in the hallway.

He didn’t knock on Peggy’s office door, but she was alone and expecting him. He stopped in the doorway and met her gaze.

She said, “I received word from the American troops in Vietnam.”

“And?”

“He’s dead.”

Bucky drowned. He choked on the gasping breaths; the door swinging shut behind him, Peggy meeting him halfway, her arms like a rope heaving him away from the edge. But Bucky’s legs gave out and hers did too and then they were crying on her office floor, and there was nothing in the world but the water overhead and the way it filled his lungs.

“They’ve asked me to come collect his body,” she said, sniffing and trying to slow the tears. She hadn’t let herself fall apart until he’d arrived. She hadn’t let herself cry alone in her office without him. She added, “Please come with me,” and it sounded like she was pleading.

They were on a flight that evening and neither of them said a word. Bucky kept picturing how Steve’s body would be laid out. Would he be in a body bag or forgotten in a ditch already? Had they fetched him a coffin or simply draped the American flag over his corpse and left him in the corner of the medic tent?

They had to get him themselves because he wasn’t out there on military command. He was a civilian in a war zone and they were his wife and best friend, going to pick up the remains. What was left of him. Whatever that might be.

Vietnam was a kind of hot Bucky wasn’t used to; a wet kind of heat that made him sweat through his shirt before they’d even climbed in the Land Rover. He was used to the dry, forceful heat of Brooklyn summers, or, at a press, the low humidity summers in Italy, France, England, where they might sleep in the afternoon if there were on leave, or rest in the shade if they were dogged down by their packs. This was something else; there was rain in the air, and even though it was a cloudy day, it was boiling; he felt as if his skin were being fried.

They had landed at the Bien Hoa Air Base in South-Central Vietnam and the car had driven them through the American base all the way to the outskirts, where the dead were kept. Disease could spread easily through camps, and so bodies had to be returned home, or kept separate until they could be. A soldier led the way for the two of them, dressed casually with light duffels slung over their shoulders, until they reached a small command tent. There, Peggy gave Steve’s name, and the soldier on duty flicked through their files, one by one.

Then they did it again.

Then they said, “Excuse me one moment,” and called their supervisor, who ran through the files, too, and then ducked out of the tent to go check for himself.

Bucky felt uneasy. It had started when they landed and he’d found himself surrounded by the familiar camo green that he’d worn for two years in the war, and it had heightened in that tent. Peggy rested a hand on his arm, as if she could sense it, but said nothing.

Bucky couldn’t help but think that they hadn’t told the children, yet.

When the supervisor came back, he introduced himself to them.

“Colonel Moran. It is an absolute honour to meet you both.” He shook their hands then nodded them out of the tent, back out into the light. “I’m sorry for the wait, and I understand that you came here to collect the body of Captain Rogers.”

“That’s right,” Peggy said, jaw locked.

“Well, I’ll firstly apologise for the unnecessary trip.”

“What?” Bucky asked.

“There seems to have been a miscommunication,” Moran said, and started off back towards the centre of the base. He swung around a few sparse buildings, and down a line of encampments, before nodding to the familiar white tent of the infirmary. “You see,” he said, “Captain Rogers ain’t dead.”

“ _What?_ ” they said in unison.

Moran chuckled as if Bucky wasn’t about to throw up. “If it were anyone else, I’ll admit they would’ve been, but Rogers’ got that super serum, I heard. One of a kind, etcetera. I imagine someone jumped the gun on the phone call, or maybe just plain old made a mistake. But, as of an hour ago, Captain Rogers was in Infirmary Tent B.” He pointed to the second tent in the row.

They didn’t stop to thank him nor yell for the error; they simply ran. Bucky shoved aside the canvas flap of the door, and then recoiled at the smell. The tent was lined end to end with the dying. The infirmary smelt distinctly of piss, and Bucky forced back the memories that flooded in with the scent. Instead, he started off down the rows, looking at each busted up face, Peggy right on his heels and double-checking his work.

There were all kinds of injuries, but it was clear they were all serious. Gunshot wounds across the torso took up a quarter of the room, and then shrapnel the next third. The rest were dedicated to burns; the deep-tissue, intense, disfiguring kind. Some had it worse than others; some were still, unconscious, their torsos covered, while others had been hit in the legs are were wailing.

At the end of the row, in the far corner, there was a man barely awake. His eyes were fluttering with the effort to stay awake, his chest bare except for the bandage gauze pressed over the injuries. Bucky could see the edges, see the burns peeking out, over the left shoulder and towards the centre of his chest, and stopped in the aisle. Behind him, Peggy gasped.

Steve was alive, a feat for anyone when napalm was concerned, and the nurse told them what she knew.

He had come to the base conscious, carrying the body of an American soldier whom he’d saved from the napalm attack they’d been caught in. There was no outrunning napalm; it stuck like jelly to the skin, and there was no way to escape the heat, like there would be with regular fire. It was something cruel, torturous, and Steve had saved one man from dying within it, but his left shoulder, shoulder blade, and half of his chest were thoroughly burned for the effort. She was confident that he would pull through, but not whether the burns would heal.

“He’s stronger than other people,” Bucky insisted, as Peggy stood wordlessly by Steve’s bedside. “He heals better.”

“And I hope he does,” the nurse said, “but I wouldn’t bet on anything when it comes to that shit.”

They waited by his bedside, taking turns in the fresh air outside, though neither of them wanted to leave. It was evening when he woke up properly, and then all three of them cried and embraced the best they could when Steve’s skin felt like it was on fire. He barely spoke before he drifted off again, but his awakening had been all Peggy needed to pull herself together and organise their trip home, calling ahead to find a hospital that would take him.

They were back on the plane twenty hours later, and in an American hospital the day after that. Bucky had barely left Steve’s bedside, and Steve had woken up a few times to be administered large quantities of pain killers and say very little in his drowsy state other than asking after the kids and _is Rosie sixteen now? Has she learnt to drive yet?_

Bucky was struck with the memory of Rosie at only a month old, Steve saying _I don’t wanna miss her grow up._ That was so far away from where they were now.

Steve seemed satisfied knowing that Rosie was sixteen and her test had only been the month before. Peggy had been her initial teacher, but the arguing in the car over Rosie’s talent—or lack thereof—had pushed her to her wit’s end. Bucky had taken over teaching by lesson four, and even he had to admit that he had sent up a prayer a minute and clutched so tightly to the door handle that it had broken off. The fact that she’d passed her test was incredible to him, even more so that she’d never once lost her oblivious confidence and belief that she was actually good at driving, when all evidence pointed to the opposite.

When they settled in a New York hospital, Bucky made the call home to Evie and she trooped over with all the kids that evening, Rosie and Rich both excited and terrified to see him. Bucky understood it, understood the abandonment they’d struggled with and the thrill of having him home. It was mingling, too, with the knowledge that Steve was stronger than anyone in the world, and so to see him so quiet, so tired, so hurt, was scarier than many things they’d faced before.

Bucky stayed, even when everyone else went home. Peggy needed a shower and clean clothes, and she promised to bring some back for him when she visited the next day—but Bucky couldn’t leave. He wouldn’t.

He stared at Steve’s injury and wondered _What if I had been there?_ What if he’d gone with the military? What if he’d gone as a civilian, as he’d planned for all of a horrifying hour? Would he have saved Steve and brought him home unscathed, or would Bucky have been victim to the firebombs, to the agonising burn of napalm? Would he have even made it out alive?

He was enhanced, but not so much as Steve. He’d recently found his first grey hair, but Steve’s were all still blonde, and his face untouched by time.

When the hall lights dimmed, the liminal space of the hospital becoming a little more real, and night was truly covering them, Bucky gave in to desire and reached out, his fingers first hovering, then slowly, gently, pressed against the skin of Steve’s hand. He swallowed, his breathing uneven, as he curled his hand around Steve’s, as his thumb ran over Steve’s knuckles, as their palms pressed together.

Bucky could not have this in the light. He could not have this in the waking hours of day. He could not have this ever again. How had he nursed this love for so long? How had it never dwindled and died out? It needed to. _Bucky_ needed it to.

And yet touching Steve’s hand both thrilled and quieted him. It was like that moment at fifteen all over again, when he’d first been tempted to kiss Steve’s split lips. He was filled with need, but at the same time, his heart slowed and his breathing calmed, and all that was left was silence.

Was peace.

Something Bucky had rarely found since he was young and unworried.

Bucky pressed a kiss against Steve’s knuckles, just the one, so he could have done it, so he would know that he had, and then slipped his hand away. He stayed awake until the sun began peering over the horizon, and then it occurred to him, like a great sigh: _Yesterday was my anniversary._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi thank you for reading i really hope you enjoyed this section and i didn't lose any of you with the abrupt death of steve rogers in this stucky fic lmao
> 
> please tell me what you thought!! i wanna know! like whats the thoughts on the kids! and peggy! and rosie's breakdown! and steve's death! etc!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1966-1979

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a HIDEOUS amount of no creativity and lack of interest in writing at all. i did, however, FINALLY finish chapter 8 today, which is how i know that 9 chapters isn't enough for the story. i'm actually guessing it'll be around 12.
> 
> this is actually my favourite chapter so far. just so you know.

By the end of the summer in 1966, Steve was living at home again and the Rogers children were gone from the Barnes household. It felt a little like losing a limb, despite knowing they’d only be around the corner.

Bucky was worried that he was overreacting, but no more than two days after Rosie and Rich had packed up their things and trooped them over to their house, Rosie was knocking on the door to ask for help with her history project – the one Bucky had borne the brunt of her stress over – and Rich was walking in without knocking and asking Evie for one of her homemade blueberry muffins that he knew she made every weekend.

Steve healed well but not nearly enough. While cuts and slices and gunshot wounds vanished from his skin, there was something different about a napalm burn; it sunk deep into his body and marked it, a reminder. There was no running from it, no ignoring it. Steve’s left shoulder was tighter than the right, even when it stopped hurting enough that he could begin to gently exercise it again. There was a limited range of motion there, one he swore he would improve.

Steve hadn’t been anything but a specimen of perfect health since 1943. He’d been twenty-five at the time, only two years longer than he’d had this new body. Two and a half decades of perfect lungs that didn’t rattle, of wheezeless breathing, of joints that didn’t creak or ache. He could run in the cold—hell, he could _run_ , and that was a miracle in itself. The burn was like losing part of that; meeting a resistance that Steve couldn’t brute force his way through, couldn’t talk around or simply ignore.

The perfect super soldier became a little less perfect, but over time, that just became part of the new norm.

*

The documentary was in black and white.

Mike Wallace hosted, his suit pristine and dark hair slicked back. The kids were already in bed, and Bucky sat on the couch in the living room, his leg shaking as the boxy television played quietly. It was March, and this documentary had been talked about long before it aired; no sponsor would touch it, and the controversy surrounding it had been mentioned every day at work.

In the next room, Evie was washing up, and he could hear her humming. It was a sweet sound that offset his nerves; she was in her mid-forties, still teaching dance classes, but more often running the community centre in the neighbourhood; hosting potluck meals and fundraising to keep local groups in the black.

He hadn’t asked if she would want to watch the documentary; had barely managed to keep his head on straight about it. He hadn’t known he was even going to watch it until he sat down, exactly on time, like it was always a given.

_HOMOSEXUALS,_ the screen read, and the documentary began.

Bucky kept silent throughout. CBS had launched an investigation since the protests started in D.C. regarding the upcoming bill: the decriminalisation of homosexuality. Bucky didn’t know what to think, didn’t know _how_ to think it.

His fiftieth birthday was in three days and he hadn’t told a soul that he loved men in his entire life. Fifty years and that secret still weighed. Fifty years and he still wasn’t ready.

Halfway through, Evie settled on the couch beside him, and Bucky stiffened. It was one thing to watch it alone and another to have her with him, as if his thoughts were blaring loudly, aggressively. At one point, there was an interview with a homosexual man, his person hidden behind a large houseplant. Bucky stared and barely breathed. He watched in silence, he ached in silence.

What would Evie say, he wondered. What would she say if she knew he was in love with Steve? What would she say if he simply said he supported it?

She shifted on the couch and rested her head on his shoulder, and Bucky wound his arm around her automatically. There’d been a time, when they were first together, that he thought he could force himself straight. That if he loved her enough all the other feelings would go away. He had wondered if he was loving her wrong when they hadn’t, believe that if he could get it right, he’d never have to worry about it again.

And then came the kicker; the legality. The fact that he hid behind the law as if it had ever meant anything to him, really. He would never tell because he would end up in prison—and that might be changing. Soon it might not be— _illegal_ to love Steve, to want to hold him and kiss him and be the person he slept with at night. It would simply be devastating and destructive instead; it would just tear apart their families and ruin everything they’d spent fifty years building.

_Fifty._

Near the end of the documentary, the man behind the houseplant expressed a wish: _“A family, a home; some place where you belong, a place where you’re loved, where you can love somebody and, well—God knows I need to love someone.”_

Bucky swallowed.

He had that. He had that and she was beside him and her head was nestled in the crook of his shoulder and her legs were flung over his; he had that and they were upstairs, thirteen and asleep; he had that and they were just down the street, a whole family that matched his in every way. And yet—

It was a secret that pounded against his ribs, desperate to get out. He’d supressed it for so long, waiting for the day when it would be allowed out into the air, when it might even be welcomed, and that day might be soon – they might decriminalise homosexuality and those feelings would finally be able to flood the air, breathe, exist as strongly as all the others Bucky had, and yet still, he knew he would repress it. Because he had that family, that home, and Bucky was terrified to lose it.

As the credits rolled, Evie said, “What do you think about it?”

“Hm?”

“The bill. The documentary.” She leaned back and stretched, her arms raised high over her head. She still looked the same to him as the night they first met, though her hair wasn’t curled tightly anymore; she’d grown it back out, long and loose, and her eyes now tapered off into crow’s feet.

“Oh,” Bucky said, reaching suddenly for a lie. “I don’t know. I’m not sure. What do you think?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “I’m happy for them.”

“Huh?”

“For the homosexuals. Imagine living your whole life unable to love.” She shook her head. “It ain’t something I think should’ve been outlawed in the first place. I wonder if the girls would wanna go to one of those protests in support of decriminalisation—I’d bet they’re having them in New York, too…” she carried on, swinging her legs off Bucky’s and switching off the TV; pulling her hair away from her neck and standing to stretch full body, and Bucky watched, eyes stuck on her.

He could barely breathe.

Then as she spoke, he interrupted. “We should go,” he said.

“To the protest?”

“Yeah. We should—we should go and show our support.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know.”

“I lied.”

She raised an eyebrow and her lips tugged up into an amused smirk. “Did you wanna hear my opinion first?”

“I always wanna hear your opinion first.” She held out her hands and he grabbed hold, and Evie pulled him to standing. “But I think we should go.”

“You wanna march around with a picket with me?”

“It’s a cause worth supporting.”

She studied him for a moment and Bucky was struck with terror, like she was reaching past the outer layers and discovering the truth hidden inside, but then she smiled brightly and nodded. “That’d be fun,” she agreed. “I’ll make us up some signs! Oh, you never come to the protests, this will be fun!”

She tugged on his hand to lead him to bed, and he pressed his mouth into a thin line. It was better she didn’t know. It was good that she never would. He would hold his secret tight, right against his chest, and he would keep it there until he died—even if it would be another hundred years.

*

Homosexuality in the USA was decriminalised in May, 1967, and Bucky was at work. He watched the news report in the small office beside Peggy’s with a few silent co-workers. Bucky felt his heart hammering the entire time, as if it had been suddenly let loose.

After, an agent he’d once had lunch with grumbled, “Fucking fairies… unnatural,” and threw up his hands. “Next they’ll be wanting to desecrate marriage, too.”

Someone mumbled their assent, and then Peggy’s voice cut through. “I better not hear those words from your mouth again, Agent Barker, or you’ll find yourself out on the street.”

“Ma’am—”

“This is a work place, Agent, not a social club. If you want to speak like that you’ll do it where your colleagues cannot hear you.” Bucky’s lips quirked upwards in a smile just for the look on Barker’s face, and he quickly hid it with his fingers pressing hard against the skin. “Now, back to work, all of you. I don’t pay you to stand around watching the news.”

Bucky waited until the others had dispersed and then raised a single, pointed eyebrow at her. She’d been watching the report from the door, her face unreadable. Now she smiled.

“Don’t pull that face at me,” she warned idly, amused. “If the wind changes it’ll get stuck like that.”

*

Occasionally, Bucky contemplated his minor grip of immortality. He would dig the files out from where he’d hidden them under the floorboards of the study and read them through by lamplight. He remembered the day he was given them, when Peggy offered to have them burned, to conceal the matter entirely.

After the initial shock, Evie hadn’t minded having a super soldier for a husband, and his children hadn’t considered it anything out of the realm of normality, since they’d known since they were small. It was starting to become obvious, however, when he and Evie walked down the street, hand in hand, and he looked like a far younger man.

The people of their neighbourhood knew, of course; it had come up at dinners and parties years before; _James Barnes’ got that super soldier thing, he’s just like Captain America._ But no one had told the world; he’d simply never said a word and slipped away from the limelight. If Captain America made appearances, he’d do it alone, or surrounded by Peggy or the naturally-ageing Howlies.

His absence was noted every time, and so he kept those articles too, all stashed away in a lockbox beneath the floor, from the trashy columns claiming him to be feuding with Steve or dying of some ugly disease, to the odd lines in an otherwise sincere article, where they’d say _Bucky Barnes was notably absent from the night’s proceedings,_ or _Captain Rogers mentioned Barnes only once in passing, saying he had considered coming to the gala but “he’d rather be at home with the kids”._

But at some point, it would come out. It would have to, unless he planned on faking his death and moving quietly away. The world thought Bucky Barnes was fifty-odd and showing it, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. By 1970, he’d found a cumulative four grey hairs. He still ran three miles every day, and his mile time hadn’t exceeded five minutes since 1964 and his briefly sprained ankle. He was fit, in shape, obnoxiously healthy, and he could lift far more than he should’ve been able to.

In 1971 he went for a test in Howard’s lab. He and Howard had never been very close, and so throughout the years it had been easy to pull apart. It had been natural. Even when Peggy had moved her office to the Camp Leigh site – _birthplace of Captain America!_ – and carpooling became a thing of the past, Bucky saw him rarely; just at parties or gatherings he couldn’t avoid.

He’d been to Howard’s wedding, and sent a gift when his son was born, but he hadn’t seen the labs out in New York; hadn’t seen the stark white of the walls and the clean sleek design of the countertops. Bucky went in for his tests a week and a half after Steve’s. Steve’s had come back as expected; his body was that of a thirty-year-old’s and his mind was still as sharp as ever. It was just his napalm-burnt shoulder that was causing them problems; it seemed as if the firebomb had burnt away the immortality of his left shoulder, and it was aging faster than the rest of him.

“Howard said he’ll look into it,” Steve had said easily, as if the matter didn’t worry him at all. “If they could make me in the forties, I’m sure they’ll have something to help now.”

In the lab, Bucky went through the motions. The doctors stuck pads against his chest and had him run on a treadmill; they drew blood, swabbed his cheek, plucked skin cells and failed to convince him to let them take some marrow. They had their ultrasounds, though, and their x-rays; studying the bones and their joints, his insides and how they hadn’t aged. He brought along the reports from the forties; kept them all in eagle-eyed sight and refused to let them be copied. They compared the results from then and now and gushed at one another, at the Hydra technology in his body, at what they had managed to recreate from almost nothing and how successfully it had worked.

“Good thing Cap got you out,” one mused as they peered down a microscope at a drop of blood. “Imagine this kind of ability in the hands of the enemy. You’d be nigh unstoppable.”

Bucky thought the same, really, but with the added caveat that his body was one thing and his mind something entirely else. He figured they’d have to wipe him; erase him, destroy him from the bottom up and make him forget who he was—there was no way Bucky would’ve fought for Hydra, and no way that he would’ve been of use when shaking and crying and screaming through the night. Just last week a car had backfired and he had slammed his body against the sidewalk, and Sylvia had cried, because he had brought her down with him and though she hadn’t been hurt, she couldn’t persuade him to get back up again.

When Howard arrived, he did so with a small toddler in his arms, almost a year old, and a wide smile.

“Barnes!” he greeted, as the doctors scurried around, talking to each other like Bucky was the discovery of the century.

“Stark,” Bucky replied, his eyes immediately drawn to the baby. “Is this baby Anthony?”

“He is, indeed,” Howard replied, smiling briefly down at his son. “Steve informed me you attempted to kidnap his kids a few times over, so I thought I’d show you what you’re missing.” Howard handed over Anthony when Bucky held out his hands, and then wandered over to the counters so he could overlook the work.

Bucky bounced Anthony, grinning when the baby giggled. He didn’t much look like his parents yet, but he assumed that would come with age. Maybe he’d grow the same questionable moustache as his father or have the same slim jaw as his mother. He had inquisitive eyes, though; knowing ones, like Peggy when she knew there was a secret to be uncovered, or how Rich had looked when he was given the new, complicated maths work to work on in his own time.

Howard distracted him from playing with the baby by saying, “You’re not getting any older, pal.” Bucky furrowed his brow, glancing over to where Howard studied the old nineteen-forties reports. “I mean, I would say that you’re not getting any younger, but that would be redundant. If you don’t admit to having the formula to the public, they’ll figure it out for themselves.”

The government knew, of course. It would’ve been difficult to work within S.H.I.E.L.D. for twenty years without them figuring it out, and his brief foray into operations was especially productive due to their knowledge. But besides them, the neighbourhood, and even his family, whom he had told some fifteen years before, when he was supposed to be thirty-five and he was terrified of what they might say when he didn’t age before their eyes, were the only ones who knew.

“I don’t see much point though,” Bucky replied. Anthony giggled in his arms and Bucky stood him up on his knees while he sat on the patient bed. He thought, _I could beat Howard in a fight with both arms behind my back – I could take you so easy._ “What’s the public gonna say? _Okay? Good for you?_ There’s nothing to get out of it.”

Howard hummed. “Or they might say _, what the hell else have the government been hiding?_ ”

“You wanna use me to start a riot against Congress?” Bucky asked, dry.

“Or make a few plans and missions public,” Howard replied easily. “Like, I’d bet the F.B.I. knows who killed J.F.K., don’t you? And that’s information I think we’d all like to know.”

Bucky didn’t look away from the baby. In honesty, _he_ knew who’d killed J.F.K. – in fact, he’d been copied in on the investigation and Peggy had overseen it. It was all deeply classified, under several levels of hidden documents and authorisation codes he barely had, and even if he came out as a super soldier, he was certain the world would never get answers to that case.

Instead, he said, “How’s life as a father?”

“Incredible,” Howard replied, in a way that made it sound distinctly _un-_ incredible. “He shits all day, throws up his food, and has yet to pay me a single dollar of rent.”

“He’s ten months old.”

Howard shrugged, eyes not leaving the files, no doubt copying it all to memory. “He’s cute – that’s his excuse for everything. _Who left drool on my favourite tie?_ Lil’ Tony did, but we can’t blame him, ‘cause he’s adorable!” Howard huffed. Bucky thought, _Both arms behind my back._

“You think I’ll last as long as Steve?” he asked, shifting Anthony in his arms and slipping down from the bed.

“What now?”

“Back in the forties, we were told—the serum kills cells, slows ageing, elongates life, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’ve got the budget version, not the original like Steve. You think it’ll last as long as Steve’s does? Or crap out at one-fifty, instead of two-hundred.”

Howard shrugged, snapped his fingers and gestured for a doctor to come over. They said, “It’s not easy to tell, Sergeant Barnes. In many ways, your serum and Captain Rogers’ are identical, and in other ways, they’re lacking. I believe your ageing will go faster than his, if only because you’re already showing signs of it—but it’s possible that with his shoulder injury and his deterioration, that he might be slowing down to your rate, instead.”

“So, you don’t know,” Howard summarised.

“The science doesn’t exist yet to figure it out,” the doctor replied.

Baby Anthony gurgled and that was the end of that.

*

The 1970s were many things. They were long, somehow; longer than all the other decades Bucky had lived, with less strife, less heartache, less confusion and wondering and sudden breakdowns that left him stranded emotionally and destroyed physically.

The Second World War was receding at last, and his nightmares far and few between. Bucky’s psychiatrist, fifteen years long, had left the department, and he’d hugged her goodbye at her farewell party, and then been given to the new one. This woman was nice too, but in a different way; she was more honest, openly-so, and gave him a different kind of comfort in his fears and failings.

Work was easier, too, somehow; he led his team, got a promotion, led a new team and worked from his office. He grew out a beard and then shaved it back when it grew too hot, only to grow it out again the year after.

The neighbourhood changed: families who had grown up right beside his own moved away and now new folks were in their place, gawking at Captain America and Bucky Barnes living on two adjacent streets, staring openly at Bucky’s wrinkle-free skin and overly, incredibly interested in the burn across Steve’s shoulder when he jogged in a tank top. It was like being in the limelight all over again, as if the safety bubble surrounding his home had popped, and these new families weren’t as trustworthy as the last.

But the decade came and went with the usual, domestic fanfare at most.

Steve and Bucky were both sixty by the end of it, their wives not far behind, and their children shooting up tall and strong almost overnight. Rosie was shipped off to college in 1967, and she returned at the beginning of the seventies with a degree in criminal law and a job at one of the biggest firms in the city. They helped her move into her new apartment in some Manhattan high-rise, only a few streets away from Bucky’s office, and a few further from where Steve consulted, and then two years later they were doing the same for the twins; both adults with the same brown hair and blue eyes of their father, the same curling smiles as their mother, both not wanting to separate but knowing it to be time.

Sylvia studied psychiatry and Charlie journalism, and the day Bucky drove them to college he was struck with the memory of Charlie announcing, at eight years old, _I’m gonna be a soldier like Daddy!_ and the way it had destroyed him so thoroughly. He hadn’t touched the Colt in his study since Steve had taken the bullets, had barely thought of it again since he had worked through his fears of his son growing up to be like him. _Well I’m gonna be a dancer, like Mama,_ Sylvia had said, and still took ballet in her free time, even as an adult.

His children were tough and caring and incredibly, loudly wonderful. They both still danced regularly, all the talent of their parents pushed into their bodies, and were as kind and loving as their mother. Sylvia took on a master’s degree after her bachelor’s, and then started her PhD, while Charlie took on crime in the city: investigative journalism the only thing that sat right for a Barnes boy.

The last year Rich was living in the Rogers household, he was alone; his siblings all gone and moved out, and that was the year he finally took up piano, after wanting to for the decade before. He wasn’t a prodigy, and wasn’t as loud or brash as the others, but he was good, and he liked it, and then he went away to study environmental science and mathematics – because though he was tall and broad like his father, he never was the bruiser type the others were.

And then by ’75 they were on their own in an empty house, and this was endlessly sad but exciting, too. Because they had raised children and fought in wars and worked their whole lives – from poverty and the tiny apartment in Brooklyn, to the middle class houses in the suburbs.

And the decade went by, and they all grew older, and Bucky’s Ma passed and they all stood in rows at the funeral, saying their goodbyes, only to do it again the month after for Peggy’s brother. The nieces and nephews were growing too; Bucky’s baby sisters looking less like babies and more like professional adults, with careers and families and houses just as nice as their brother’s.

Tommy, the oldest, worked in the city, and Miriam, Charlotte’s girl, studied to be a teacher, while her two younger boys flitted between construction and their friend’s moving agency. It was Valerie, Catherine’s oldest, who caused the biggest drama of the decade; getting pregnant at eighteen in 1974 – but even her little boy Christopher was a light in the family and well worth the trying phone calls.

The family couldn’t hope to fit around the dining room table, but they tried, and then they crammed themselves into the living room instead, until one by one the kids grew up and moved out and then it was just the Barnes siblings and their partners, back at the table once more.

And throughout it all, there was Steve, laughing and drinking and growing just a tiny bit older.

Peggy was still by his side, but the day Rich had gone to college, she had left for work and not come back until long past midnight, old routines returning with the flick of a switch. They’d enjoyed it while she lasted; Peggy giving her priorities to her family – but her first love was the job, was the world, the greater good and everything that came with it, and she couldn’t lie for shit and say otherwise. It wasn’t surprising then that Steve came over more and they went out drinking and jogging more often.

It was like every moment Peggy spent away, Steve made up for by spending with Bucky, and Bucky drank in those moments; the long car rides into the city, the visits out to Coney Island like when they were young, the coffee in cafés and days spent in the sun, tanning and reading and taking a well-earned break from all the pain they’d been dealt. It was a gift that kept on giving, no matter how guilty he felt about accepting it.

Peggy ran the office out of Camp Leigh in New Jersey; a longer commute, meaning they took up a second mortgage and bought an apartment nearby, after what Bucky was sure was a long and heated argument about selling the house and moving, and Steve stayed in the neighbourhood, only expecting Peggy home on the weekends.

It was in this time that Bucky took to watching him closer, searching for signs of gnawing guilt or sadness or worry. He didn’t like the idea of Steve in that big house alone, just as he hadn’t liked the idea of him rattling round his old apartment after Sarah’s untimely death. And so Steve came to Bucky’s for dinner, or Bucky and Evie went to his, and they watched sports games they’d never cared about before as well as the ones they did. Bucky kept track of Steve’s healing with his shoulder, the pain ebbing, the stiffness still present, and clocked his moods.

Steve was still exactly the same as Bucky had always known him to be; righteously indignant, annoyingly passionate, dedicated and hardworking – but now he was an empty-nester, too, and soon enough the days were growing too long to easily be filled.

He chose semi-retirement and took up a consulting job with S.H.I.E.L.D.; one that took him to the city more than it took him to Camp Leigh, but only once or twice a fortnight. Then he bought a guitar and started learning piano, before finally throwing himself back into art after dabbling with it for some sixty years.

The first of Steve’s paintings to end up in the Barnes house was a family portrait, taken from a photo – but while the image had been black and white, the painting was colourful, vibrantly so, with all the bright colours of summer, and the pink splashes of Sylvia’s dress. Evie hung it over the dining room table, in the middle of all the family photos, taking pride of place, and Bucky saw the way Steve ducked his head, the first time he came in and saw it there.

The second was smaller and ended up in Bucky’s bedroom; a painting barely bigger than his hand: Bucky and Steve side by side in war time, like in those interview reels they’d once done. They were laughing, grinning at each other, and Bucky could almost recall the question exactly as it had been asked: _Where do you think you’ll end up after the war?_

Bucky had said, _Somewhere with alcohol, preferably,_ and Steve had replied, _I can finally drink you under the table._ They’d found it deliriously funny, and the footage had made news reels, albeit without the audio – but Bucky still remembered what he had wanted to say all those years ago, Steve’s shoulder jostling his.

_Where do you think you’ll end up after the war?_

_I don’t care,_ Bucky had almost said, _so long as Steve’s there with me._

*

In November of 1979, Bucky Barnes permitted to his first interview in twenty years. It was on the blue-grey set of _The Dick Cavett Show;_ a talk show he’d chosen specifically for its host’s, Dick Cavett’s, political opinions and that one time he’d pissed off Richard Nixon.

It was a well-awaited for interview; announced weeks in advance, and pulling in the highest numbers the show had ever received as the country tuned in to see the face of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes who—

“You look _really_ good for your age,” Dick said, after Bucky shook his hand and sat in the armchair beside his desk.

“Thank you, thank you,” Bucky replied as the applause died down. He could see Steve and Evie watching from the backstage wings, and the twins had scored seats in the audience. “I moisturise daily.”

“Right, right, but you see—you’re what, _twenty_ years older than me?” Dick said, making the audience laugh. “How do you look so much _younger?!_ Talk about making me feel insecure.”

Bucky laughed good-naturedly along with the audience and took a breath. “Well, it’s a long story,” he said, “but I’ll give you the short version—”

“Please do.”

“You ever heard of Captain America?”

*

His favourite articles ended up in the lockbox beneath the study floorboards:

**_IS BUCKY BARNES A SUPER SOLDIER?_ **

_The extraordinary interview revealing the truth about Howling Commando Bucky Barnes and his time spent as a prisoner of war._

**_MADE INTO A WEAPON BY THE ENEMY: SERGEANT JAMES BARNES AND THE SUPER SOLDIER SERUM_ **

_How America had been hiding a second super soldier for thirty-five years, and how the super soldier had hidden from America._

****

And the Pulitzer prize winning:

**_MY FATHER, THE SUPER SOLDIER_ **

_The Nazi’s attempt at a human weapon, America’s golden war hero, and suburban, loving father: Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes and the life the public never got to see._

_By Charlie Barnes_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The CBS documentary on homosexuality is real, as is the quote and the man obscuring his identity with a houseplant.
> 
> ANYWAY. HOW ARE WE FEELING  
> can i just say i LOVE charlie writing a long article, like the kind you'd see in the new yorker, twelve fucking pages long and all about his father????? yeah thats the Good Shit
> 
> please tell me your thoughts!!! about the sixties and the immortality and the article and the entirety of the seventies passing in one long chunk lmao
> 
> ily thank u for reading!!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1980-1981

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as promised on tumblr.... a Doozy

Bucky still remembered Rosie’s wedding day like it was yesterday. Though it was now almost 1981 and winter was setting in fast, he found himself looking out across the neighbourhood as Steve slogged through the slush and slurry, remembering the day. It had been 1975, Rosie twenty-six years old and a year into working at a high-rise skyscraper in Manhattan. She’d worn a long white dress, flowers in her hair, and Steve had walked her down the aisle beaming like nobody’s business.

Her husband was another lawyer – they’d met on their first day of law school and courted each other for six months with sly glances and small gifts before finally going out on a date. His name was Jacob Hall, he had a slight limp from a broken bone in his teenage years, and he could not have cared less about Captain America. Bucky assumed that was why she fell for him in the first place.

He’d been thoroughly vetted, interrogated (in the non-violent way), and brought round for many lunches and dinners and summer events before Steve had officially approved of the man. It hadn’t taken so long for Bucky, but that was because he’d seen him out on the street once and on a whim followed him for three hours all the way to a fucking _soup kitchen._ Because Jacob Hall was some kinda _saint_ who _volunteered for the homeless_ on his days off.

They were both defence lawyers; Rosie private, Jacob not, and Jacob also worked on filing appeals for death row inmates.

Bucky didn’t know why he was thinking about that wedding, but maybe it was because it was Peggy’s birthday, and on birthdays he tended to get a bit nostalgic.

All morning he’d been flipping through photo albums from the forties; old photographs from the front, of the Howlies and press images from the Captain America tour. He’d ended up going through them all while Evie was out at the community centre coffee morning and spent at least an hour on the weddings of the children alone.

Only Rich was yet to get married, but everyone had stopping nudging him about it a few years before when he’d thrown himself into his work so much that he’d won a few prestigious awards on his focus of melting ice caps and pollution. He was living out in Antarctica while the other kids ran around the city with their high paying jobs and interesting partners.

Bucky approached the front door as Steve entered, kicking the sludge from his boots before stepping inside.

“Morning,” he called before Bucky rounded the corner into the foyer.

“It’s afternoon.”

Steve glanced at the clock on the wall. “Not for six more minutes.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Stop being pedantic and shut the door, it’s fucking freezing.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Ha ha,” Bucky drawled. His mother had been dead for almost five years. “Peg call yet?”

“Hm? Yeah, this morning. Real early, too.” Steve shut the door and slipped off his shoes. Shoes on in the Rogers-Carter house were fine, but shoes on in the Barnes house were not. Both Bucky and Evie had grown tired of trying to scrub mud out of the carpets from their kids’ roughhousing that one day they’d just plain outlawed it. “Before seven a.m. for sure.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I think she must be getting to work at seven. I don’t know. She barely talks about it with me anymore.”

Bucky pulled a face as the two walked into the kitchen. Bucky put the kettle on the hob and lit it before searching for mugs. “She doesn’t talk to you about work?”

“I’m not government anymore.”

“You’re a consultant.”

“Still.” Steve shrugged and switched topics. “She said to thank you for your gift.”

“Mm, Evie picked it out.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you had any taste in jewellery.”

Bucky scoffed and Steve rolled his eyes. They made up coffees and settled in the living room; Steve’s art supplies still sitting on the table where he’d left them the day before. Bucky had cut his hours sometime after the Dick Cavett interview; he’d assumed most people at work had already known that he was a super soldier – that if you hit his pay grade or higher, you’d just hear it through the classified grapevine.

This was not the case.

Rather, the Monday after the interview, Bucky got stares everywhere he went. He wore the same nice suit as always, shaved as regularly as any other day; his hair was still short and styled and everything about him was no different than it had been Friday afternoon when he left—but somehow, he was. Now he was no longer Sergeant Barnes, ex-Howling Commando and childhood hero, leader of a large unit and level seven agent—now he was Sergeant Barnes, tortured war hero and fucking _super soldier._

People looked at him different, he was asked to join all the ops teams, even though he was strictly a desk jockey and non-field agent – strangers came up to him and asked a hundred questions that were far too invasive for his liking. He’d made it two weeks like this before talking to his boss and changing to part-time. He would’ve thought that the news would’ve died down, was banking on it, even – but it was like every little thing he did was no longer normal work, but the work of _Howling Commando Bucky Fucking Barnes._

He didn’t mind losing the hours, though. His pay was so much higher than he’d ever expected that they could afford it; they had a tidy sum of savings and now he got more days off to finally take up a hobby and spend with Steve or his wife. They went out into the city sometimes, had lunch with their kids; he’d fixed the table with the uneven legs, then found it interesting enough that he’d gone and hung the mirror on the wall that he’d been planning to put up since ’76. He built that greenhouse Evie had been wanting, then he and Steve planted it up.

Steve had been right about semi-retirement; it was just enough work and just enough rest that he felt even, that there was a balance.

They chatted for a while in the living room like they did most days; laughing and joking and then poring through the photo albums all over again. Charlie had got married second, to an Italian American woman who worked in her parents’ Italian grocers. She was an expert at handmade pasta and correcting Bucky when he spoke his long-ago learned Italian wrong. Her name was Marcia Barnes by the end of ’77, and she’d had so many bridesmaids – twelve – that Charlie had struggled to think of twelve men that he knew to be his groomsmen.

On their wedding day it had rained hard, and then it’d been a whole lightning storm ten months later when their son was born.

Sylvia’s wedding album was sparser than the rest, but Bucky remembered it no less distinctly. Her wedding dress had been knee-length, her audience small. She’d married in the tiny local church three streets away from where she grew up, and her husband Mark was soft-spoken and quiet. They’d met through ballet, though both had given it up after college, and Mark had an advertising job only a few blocks from Sylvia’s psychiatry office.

Steve brushed his finger across the photo of Sylvia, wedged between he and Bucky, and said, “You got any of my wedding around here anywhere?”

Bucky hummed. They’d shoved the coffee table aside and were sitting on the floor of the living room, the albums stacked up before them. He ran a finger across the spines before pulling one from the pile, sending the rest sprawling.

“’45 to ’50,” he said. “Rosie should be in that, too.”

Steve pulled a face as he took the offered album. “What, I don’t even get my own?”

“You think all this paper grows on trees, Rogers?”

Steve laughed and flicked the album open as Bucky turned back to the one of the last few years. It contained the first coloured photos they owned; having acquired an expensive new camera a few years prior. Some of the photos still had a sepia tone to them, but a few special ones were in full, grainy, over-saturated colour; the reds and blues and greens all as they had been to Bucky’s eyes.

He paused over a photo of Charlie, Marcia and baby Jason, beside the one of Sylvia’s little girl, Heather. Their smiles were so large, so real, and Bucky just stared, accepting that there was a long period of time when he thought he would never have this; never have domestic life and children, never have a feeling of peace melted across his core like a balm.

Then Steve said, “Do you think she looks happy there?” and Bucky blinked, turning to look at the photo Steve had opened the album onto. He was well past the greyscale photos of the end of the war and life as it came after; of the park and the sunny days, of he and Bucky and Peggy wedged onto one sofa, entwined and laughing, of dancing and eating and heading for long days at the beach. Instead, he was looking at his wedding photo. Bucky only had a few, but there stood Steve and Peggy, arms around each other, looking at the camera.

Bucky rarely stopped on that photo. In fact, he rarely spent time looking at the pictures of Steve and Peggy together lest some ugly jealous rear up in his chest. He had no time to waste fighting it back down. He swallowed and looked at Peggy’s face. She was smiling, a new bride.

“Sure,” he replied.

Steve hummed, unconvinced.

“Do you think she was _unhappy_ on your wedding day?” Bucky asked, incredulous.

“I dunno,” Steve sighed, leaning back against the sofa. “Probably not. I mean, we were real happy then, weren’t we? Still in our twenties, just spear-headed the victory in a war, getting married to our war-time sweetheart.” He didn’t look sure, though. He looked like he was chewing on a lemon that Bucky couldn’t see.

“You wanna tell me why you think Peggy wasn’t happy?”

Steve shrugged. “I see this photo,” he said after a beat, “and think that _she’s thinking_ she should’ve married her job instead.”

_Ah. There it is._

Bucky swallowed, and flipped the photo album shut. “She wasn’t thinking that.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know?”

“Because she was head over fucking heels in love with you.” Bucky would know; he had first-hand experience of what it looked like.

Steve hmphed and said, “You think she still is?”

The pause went on too long and they both knew it. Was Peggy Carter still in love with Steve Rogers? That was the question, and it had been for well over a decade. Bucky had no doubt in his mind that Peggy _loved_ Steve. Steve was lovable, and good, and kind, and he still drove out every weekend like clockwork to New Jersey to visit her, especially after the month when she was too busy to come back to Brooklyn like she was meant to. If she didn’t love him, she was a fool, and Peggy Carter was no fool. But Peggy had bogged herself so far down into her work that Bucky thought she’d lost sight of love and romance and marriage a long time ago. That she had stopped seeing Steve as a partner in everything, and started to simply see him as a dear friend who looked after the children she was too busy for, and occasionally, probably, made love to her like he did when they were young.

And still, despite Steve’s sad puppy face, Bucky couldn’t find it in him to be mad at her. Not like he had been when Rosie had cried in his car, or Rich had asked where his Mama was and if she was gonna tuck him into bed every night for two weeks—because anger would’ve come at surprise from the matter, and this had been the norm for a very long time.

Bucky said, “You’re making this walk down memory lane depressing,” and took the photo album from Steve’s lap.

“Sorry.”

“No—it’s okay. It’s fine, pal. Marriage is hard.”

“You make it look pretty easy.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m great at everything,” Bucky replied fast.

“You never went through shit with Evie?”

“Not like—” Bucky hesitated. “I never fell out of love,” he said carefully, not wanting to lie. “And as far as I know, she never has either. It got—comfortable and easy after a while, like we stopped trying to impress each other, but I don’t think that’s always a bad thing.” Bucky pulled a face. “We argue mainly over petty things. Things that don’t mean much. Doing dishes and laundry and when I swore too much in front of the kids.”

“Do you think you’re soulmates?”

“What?”

Steve looked earnest. “Soulmates. Do you think that’s you and Evie?”

“Like, made for each other?”

“Yeah.”

“When’d you get caught up in that crap?”

Steve shrugged. “Rosie was saying it a few weeks back, that she and Jacob are _soulmates._ ”

Bucky sniffed and shrugged. “Probably not.”

“What?”

“Me and Evie. Probably not soulmates.” He didn’t look at Steve when he said it. He was almost thirty years married and he didn’t think they were made for each other. Bucky thought, honestly, that if he had been custom made for someone else, it would’ve been Steve, and Steve built perfectly for him. There was no one else on the planet that Bucky would’ve been able to feel that way about; that understood him so easily, who had the same sense of loyalty and protection for each other as Bucky did for Steve, and Steve for Bucky. They followed each other across the world, through war and gunfire and the kind of gore that gave you nightmares and were willing to do it again after.

Bucky said, “I think we make it work though,” about Evie, “and that’s what counts.”

Steve blew out a breath. “I used to think Peggy was the fucking sun,” he said. “My whole world revolved around her, and she provided all the light I’d ever need.” He shook his head. “Can’t revolve around a sun if it ain’t here.”

Bucky rolled his lower lip between his teeth and watched his best friend shake his head.

“Maybe we would’ve been soulmates if she didn’t have that job,” Steve said, “but I don’t think she’d be Peggy if she worked anywhere else.”

“What are you gonna do?” Bucky asked, quiet.

“Nothing, probably,” Steve sighed. He rubbed a hand across his face and yawned, before reaching over to the table for his coffee. “Drive to Jersey this weekend, drive back on Monday. Do the same again next week.”

“But you’re unhappy,” Bucky said. Steve didn’t reply. “ _Steve._ If you’re unhappy—”

“What do you expect me to do?” Steve interrupted. “ _Divorce her?_ ”

“Yeah, if that’s what’s gonna make you happy again.”

Steve’s laugh was mirthless. “I don’t _want_ to divorce her,” Steve said. “How am I gonna be happy without her?”

“How are you gonna be happy _with_ her?”

Steve huffed. “I shouldn’t’ve said anything.”

“No, you should’ve brought this up twenty years ago when she first started pulling this shit.”

“I _did_ ,” Steve shot back. “I told you in fucking Kazakhstan—”

“Yeah and then you got _shot,_ you idiot,” Bucky retorted. “There was no time to deep dive into your love life! Steve—”

“How is divorcing her gonna make me any happier?” Steve asked, and for a moment, Bucky thought he heard something unspoken in Steve’s voice. He thought he heard _tell me if divorcing her will make me happier, please tell me._

Bucky swallowed and said, quiet, “Do you like driving out to Jersey every weekend to spend two days with your wife a week?” Steve said nothing, just stared. “Do you like how secretive she is? Or the fact that she left you to raise your kids by yourself?” Steve opened his mouth and Bucky said, “No, Steve, she did. I love her, too, but she _did._ She left them alone. Hell, how do you like living with the fact that when you were gone, she made herself scarcer than ever? _Steve._ Are you fucking happy in this relationship anymore?”

“I miss her,” Steve whispered.

“I know you do.” Bucky shifted over, until they were sitting side by side, arms pressed against each other. Steve stared into his empty coffee cup. “But you’re not _happy._ ”

“You don’t think she’d try to fix things if I told her?”

Bucky sighed. “I think she’d try,” he admitted. “But I don’t think she’d manage it.”

Steve peered over at him, frowning. “She’s scarily efficient, you know.”

“I know,” Bucky said, smiling. “But the minute you were back from Vietnam, she was itching to go again.”

“She waited until the kids were gone.”

“That was the _least_ she could do, Steve – but don’t act like you didn’t notice her taking longer hours while they were still around. She doesn’t think about individual people—she thinks big picture. If you’re all still alive and healthy, then Peg doesn’t think about if you’re happy, or lonely, or if she’s seen you in a month. She’ll try, and then work will get in the way, or she’ll take on more responsibility, and then you’ll be put on the backburner again.”

“You think things would be better if we separated?”

Bucky thought about it, and then he said, as genuinely as he could, “Yeah. I do, pal.”

*

By the summer of 1981, Steve had filed divorce papers.

It wasn’t something that Bucky had thought, on that day in the winter with all the photo albums, would actually happen. He didn’t have the heart to think something like that; didn’t have the cruel hope left in him, either. He’d thought that Steve and Peggy might separate over Christmas, but by the end of January there’d be some tearful reunion, and Peggy’s promise to do better, and Steve would grin and bear whatever came their way until they were dead.

But then, after they separated, it was like Steve was no longer stuck at Grand Central Station waiting for a train that would never come in. He took his weekends to the community garden and local parks; he became better acquainted with his neighbours and found odd jobs that needed doing. He wasn’t finding ways to desperately fill the day anymore; he was doing things he wanted, and then suddenly the day was over and he wasn’t halfway done yet.

Rosie and Rich had taken it as well as to be expected. Rich’s letter from Antarctica had been sad and questioning, but overall supportive if this was really what Steve wanted to do, and Rosie, Steve reported, had hummed and said, “I’ll be honest, I was expecting this conversation ten years ago.”

And then, in June, Steve and Peggy’s self-allotted six months of space came to an end, and they tallied up the feelings. In short: Peggy felt less guilty about spending so much time at work, though still incredibly horrible that she’d let it ruin their family like that, and Steve—Steve had felt happy.

So he filed the papers and showed up at Bucky’s door with the car and a suitcase. He said, “We’re going on a trip,” and Bucky said, “You know I have work, right?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Take holiday. We’re going on a trip.”

“Where?” he asked, already reaching for the phone – because Bucky only had enough willpower to say no to Steve once, and they both knew it.

“America.”

Bucky hesitated. “We already live in America.”

“The _rest_ of America, then. The bits we haven’t seen.”

“Like?”

“Like…” Steve snapped his fingers a few times. “Like have you always wanted to see the Grand Canyon?”

Bucky put his hand on the phone and squinted at Steve. “Are you having a crisis?”

“Of course I am, I just filed for _divorce!_ ” he cried. “So now we’re going on a camping trip—”

“You said _nothing_ about camping—”

“And we’re gonna bond like unmarried best friends. Get your things.”

“I’m still married,” Bucky pointed out, but it seemed like a moot point and he called into work and booked two weeks off, per Steve’s instructions. He called through to his co-worker after and asked him to take his open cases.

“And why the hell would I take those? You’ve got paperwork stacked up to the ceiling in your office, Barnes.”

“Because I’m a war hero,” Bucky replied, “and a tortured prisoner of war, and I need my cases covered.” Steve blinked at him in surprise and Bucky held up a finger, mouthing _watch this._ “Now, I seem to remember playing a particularly large role in _stopping the Nazis,_ and I also seem to remember two weeks ago when you _broke the break room microwave_ and I didn’t tell on you.”

“Barnes—”

“That’s a two-hundred-dollar microwave that would’ve come out of your pay check had I not been so kind to you, and a life lived under a fascist dictator had I not served so valiantly. So, do your local Medal of Honour recipient a favour and take my open cases.” He hung up before he could be told no. “I’m free. Let’s get moving.”

“What about Evie?” Steve asked as he followed Bucky upstairs.

“I’ll tell her, don’t worry.”

He told her forty-five minutes later as they were leaving the neighbourhood for the trip. They first swung by the community centre and Bucky darted in, located Evie sitting at a table with a few locals, drinking coffee and eating cakes, like they did every Tuesday morning, and pressed a kiss against her cheek.

“Oh! Buck—”

“Steve and I are going camping for two weeks. I’ll call you from whatever state we end up in—”

“Bucky!” She said, grabbing his wrist as he moved away. “What?”

“Steve and I are going camping for two weeks,” he said slower.

“Now?”

“Well, actually,” he replied, looking at his watch, “I feel like the trip started about five minutes ago. So I’m already on it, technically.”

She blinked up at him and took a breath. “Did he file today?”

“Yeah.”

Evie pressed her lips together in a thin, understanding line. “Alright then. Have fun. But you’re redecorating the guest room when you get back.”

“Of course.” They kissed briefly and he shot her a grin, before heading back out to the car and listening to Evie and her friends laugh as he went. He slammed the car door shut and nodded at Steve. “Where to first?”

Steve shrugged. “A little south, then a whole lot west, I assume.”

“You’re not good at geography, huh?”

Steve scoffed. “When do you ever remember me _actually_ going to class?”

*

They went south by way of Pennsylvania and West Virginia, and then went west. They stopped off over night Kentucky, and then in Tennessee, ate breakfasts in dead diners and bought snacks for the road. Bucky smoked out the windows sometimes, and Steve would only roll his eyes and hold out his hand for the cigarette, and then one of them would throw the nub at the end onto the road to be run over by some other car.

They went through the South wearing thin clothes and sweating through the summer heat. Arkansas, then Oklahoma. They camped where they could, paid for nights in motels where they couldn’t. The ground was always solid and rough outside, but the night air too humid for the tent canvas. The stars though—they were nothing like they’d seen in the city.

“Reminds you of Europe, don’t you think?” Steve asked one night, when they slept on the ground without a tent, in some grass field in the north of Texas. Bucky hummed, his eyes too tired to stay open, but unable to look away from the sheer mass of stars overhead. That was a whole fucking universe up there.

“Remember that night in France? In the forest?”

“There were a lot of forests in France,” Steve replied.

Bucky yawned. “I mean the one the day Dum Dum slipped in the mud and ripped his pants open.” Steve chuckled.

“Yeah. I remember.”

“I never felt so small before that night,” Bucky replied. “Like—how can we even exist when all that is out there?”

Steve took a long, deep breath. “We do the best we can,” he said, and the stars twinkled as if they agreed.

From Texas, it was just a long drive through the dry landscape of New Mexico. Despite all the travelling they’d done in the war and for their jobs, Bucky had barely seen four states before this trip. Steve had toured for a while as Captain America but had seen very little other than the journey from the hotel to the venue he’d perform at. And America was—nice. It was long rolling hills and stretching desert. It was fresh apple pie at ten in the morning and free refills on coffee all day long. It was, for the most part, oblivious to them; a million other lives passing them by and not even giving them a second glance.

They still looked mostly the same; a little older, a little taller, a little less like they hadn’t eaten a real meal in a few years. They didn’t wear army greens or battle suits, though their dog tags had never truly vanished from their permanent location around their necks.

They could’ve been anyone’s sons, brothers, cousins. They could’ve been thirty years old and away for the weekend. They could’ve been new in town and looking for jobs in construction. They could’ve been anyone – but they were Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, and they were going to the Grand Canyon.

And when they got there, Bucky said, “So it really just is a big hole in the ground, huh?” and Steve doubled over laughing until Bucky had joined him, and then they were just sitting on the hood of their car, laughing and wiping the tears from their eyes.

“I needed this,” Steve told him.

“I know, Stevie.”

“I really fucking needed this. It’s like I’ve been drowning for so long and I finally got to come up to the surface for air.” He breathed out a long breath. “I’m getting divorced, Buck.”

“I know, Stevie.”

“I thought she was gonna be it for me; the love of my life. But I’m not—I’m not even half done with my life yet, and I’ve spent thirty years of it with someone who isn’t it for me.”

Bucky rolled his head to look at Steve, who was staring out across the Grand Canyon like it was gonna give him all the answers. But it was just a hole in the ground and it wasn’t saying anything.

“You’re not gonna leave me too, are you, Buck?”

“No way in hell are you getting rid of me,” Bucky replied. He sat forward, curling his arms around his knees. “We’re gonna get twin fucking graves, Rogers. Dead in the ground side by side.”

Steve hummed. “I was thinking about cremation.”

“What fun is that? Besides, apparently the smoke is bad for the environment.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Your son wrote like ten papers on pollution, Steve. I read ‘em.” Steve sent him a look. “Alright, I skimmed like three of them – but the point still stands. Let’s get buried and someone can plant a tree over us.”

Steve exhaled out a smile. “We’ve got a long way to go until then, huh?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Bucky replied. “We’ve got a hell of a long way to go.”

They stared out at the canyon for a while as other tourists milled around, coming and going. It was mid-afternoon, the sun bright and hot. Bucky was already beginning to sweat through his clothes.

“You wanna drive down to the bottom and camp down there somewhere?” Steve asked.

Bucky shrugged. “Think they’ll let us?”

“I’m Captain America, I can do what I want.”

They drove down, then hiked the rest of their way in. It wasn’t an easy walk at all, but they were super soldiers, and their packs were light, and by the time evening got dark, they’d already found a dry, flat spot and set up camp. It was just a few sleeping bags for a night that warm, with a small fire going, and the two sat side by side, cooking their meagre supplies of food and listening to the chirping of insects in the dark.

They talked quietly for a while, mostly about nothing. When two people had known each other as long as they had, not every conversation was going to be meaningful or ground breaking; sometimes it was just enough to comment on the weather, on their shoes, on the way that one cricket sounded like it was really worked up over something. But eventually, the conversation came back around, as it tended to, to the divorce, and what might happen next.

“Think you’ll get to keep the house?” Bucky asked.

Steve hummed. “I hope so. She doesn’t use it anyway. She might trade up apartments, though. The New Jersey one wasn’t supposed to be permanent so we didn’t get a great one. We’ll probably have to divide up all our stuff.”

“Start hiding the things you wanna keep now,” Bucky said, “before she comes back and realises she wants them.”

Bucky was going for a smile, and in the firelight, he saw he’d partially succeeded. Steve was sad, more than anything, about his marriage ending, even if he was happy to get that freedom, that sense that he was no longer waiting for someone to come home, when he knew they wouldn’t.

“She can have what she wants,” Steve said. “And we’ll split the money evenly, like we agreed. I don’t want to fight with her. She’s—she’s still one of my best friends. I just can’t go on living like this.”

“How are you gonna live from now on?”

Steve hesitated, before reaching into his pack for the cans of beer he’d bought from a gas station in Arizona. They each took one, even though both of their tolerances were a little too high for a Bud Light to do much with.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna do the things I _want_ to do. Maybe finally go to art school.”

“You gonna quit S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Maybe. Might stay on for a little longer; I don’t mind the work. It’s all strategy at this point, anyway. But I can paint and draw and maybe finally go to the VA in Brooklyn—I’ve been meaning to take a visit for a while now. Maybe I’ll get a dog, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ve always wanted one, but Peg’s a cat person and we never had the time for one, when we were both working. Now, though—”

“Empty house, no kids. You should get a big dog.”

Steve hummed his agreement. “It’s weird, don’t you think? How everyone else our age is settled and ready for retirement. They’re all talking about trading down for smaller houses, or spending time with the grandkids. Morita’s talking about that long trip around the world with his wife, seeing India and Africa. And last time I spoke to Gabe, he was going on about retiring and maybe buying a house by a lake; finding somewhere peaceful to settle. And—well, I’m out here thinking about the same things, but I know I’ve still got another hundred years to go. I’ve still got a lifetime. I can’t stop working now, I can’t settle down or trust my money will hold out. In fifty years, they’ll all be dead, but I’ll still be kicking, and I’ll probably be poor all over again, and you hear about those—those personal computers? Technology’s gonna change so much, and I’ll be old and having to keep up.”

Bucky sipped his beer. “You know, you’re probably talking to the one person on Earth who _does_ get it.”

Steve smiled despite himself. “Yeah. It’s just the two of us. Talk about similar life experience. In the end, it’ll just be us.”

Bucky looked over and Steve met his gaze. “If there was anyone I was gonna share immortality with,” Bucky said quietly, “I’m real fucking thankful it’s you.”

“Me too,” Steve admitted. “I don’t think I could face the rest of my life if I didn’t know you’d be by my side for it.”

They smiled at each other, soft, in the firelight, under an immense, star-filled sky. Bucky had always wanted to see the Grand Canyon and so Steve had brought him there. And Steve had been stuck in a marriage he couldn’t hope to find joy in, and Bucky had pulled him from the rut to find himself again. _‘Til the end of the line_ was written in stone, even if their handwriting was a little sloppy.

Bucky breathed, uneven, and said, “I feel the same way,” and then he kissed Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uhhhhh what are we thinking


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1981-1981. I think. I didn't make it clear to even myself, but I'm pretty sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> per request, i posted the [family tree](https://tempestaurora.tumblr.com/post/615378928865050624/as-promised-the-family-tree-for-all-my-love) for this fic as far as the end of chapter 7. i know i keep adding partners and children every other chapter so i had to make a family tree for myself so i would be able to keep track of ages lmao. i'll post a new one when it gets wild and complex again, and i'll probably put the final one in its own chapter at the end of this fic.
> 
> this chapter will include the AIDS crisis, because I think it's only right to acknowledge that in a story about a queer man throughout the last 100 years, but unlike that time I tried to tackle the Vietnam War, the story doesn't go into much depth on this issue.
> 
> anyway!!!! let's continue from that Doozy of a last chapter

On a spring day, when Bucky was fifteen years old, he’d planned on meeting Steve outside the movie theatre. They were gonna see some black and white flick everyone was talking about at the time; the tickets would cost a quarter each and their mothers had provided them with a hair ruffle and a stern _don’t go wasting it._

In fifty years time, at the Grand Canyon, Bucky wouldn’t remember what movie they’d planned to see, because they never actually saw it. Rather, by the time Bucky arrived, Steve had already been waiting ten minutes, all five-foot-nothing of him, and had managed to get into a fight out on the sidewalk.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky had grumbled. He’d been hoping to catch a movie, not a fist – but there was Steve, getting pummelled in broad daylight, so Bucky stepped in between the two, and blocked a loosely thrown punch from Steve’s assailant. He was at least six foot, probably had five years on Steve, and a girl waiting a little ways away, watching the fight and chewing on her thumbnail.

“How ‘bout we break this up?” Bucky suggested. He wasn’t nearly as tall as the man, but he was scrappy, and he’d been boxing since he could walk. Bucky had tried to teach Steve a few times, but Steve was easily knocked down, no matter how often he got back up, and it always made Bucky feel like an overgrown monster; wailing on a boy more baby deer than teenage male.

“Buck, I’ve got this,” Steve gasped from the ground behind him.

“Yeah _Buck,_ ” the man drawled. “He’s got this.”

“Not anymore,” Bucky corrected. “So, if you wanna get in a fight, here I am. Otherwise, fuck off.”

Bucky may have been a little taller and a little broader than the other kids his age, but he was still fifteen years old, and had to tilt his head back to look up at the fucker. So they fought; another wily punch or two, and Bucky hit back with everything he had, keeping light on his feet and his arms close to his body.

He felt the man’s nose break under his knuckles, and then stood there, listening to him swear, before he threw them the middle finger and stalked off with the girl, trying to stem the blood that poured from his nose.

Steve was already up on his feet, and Bucky sighed as he took his friend’s chin between his finger and thumb and tilted it towards the light.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You gotta stop that shit.”

“He deserved it,” Steve protested.

Bucky rolled his eyes and the two of them started into the theatre, bypassing the ticket stand and heading straight for the bathroom. “They always deserve it,” he huffed back. “Doesn’t mean you gotta hit ‘em all.”

“Don’t you even wanna know what he did?” Steve asked, as Bucky elbowed the door open and stood aside to let Steve in. The bathroom was empty, grimy, and the tall mirrors above the sinks cracked.

“Not in the slightest,” he replied.

Bucky yanked a stream of toilet paper from the dispenser and nodded Steve onto the counter. He huffed and jumped up, wincing over his aching limbs. Every part of Steve hurt back then. His arms were too thin with no muscle, his legs so dainty and bony they shouldn’t’ve been able to hold him up. There were a whole load of sicknesses in his blood, in his lungs, in his stomach and heart. He was hollow-looking, hunched over, his shoulders a little too big for the thin line of his torso.

Now, his eye was already bruising from the hit, and his nose, broken at least twice before, was looking crooked. Luckily, the only time Steve had ever had a tooth knocked out, it was a baby, and the adult one had grown in its place, but his mouth was all busted and bleeding, and his face red from the stings of the hits. Bucky bet his stomach would probably be bruised too – big men always liked to go for the gut – but if Bucky looked, he wouldn’t know which were from fighting and which were from whatever disease was flaring up this week, and the mere prospect of trying to figure it out was depressing.

He folded up some of the toilet paper and wet it, handing it to Steve to press against the bruise across his cheekbone. Then he looked at the split lip; the blood welling from the cut across the pink flesh of Steve’s mouth and then—

Bucky had the overwhelming urge to kiss him.

It was like all the desire he’d ever felt suddenly pooled in his gut, telling him _Go for it_ , _kiss him kiss him kiss him kisshimkisshimkisshim—_

Bucky dabbed at the blood with the tissue and swallowed, his eyes clamped on Steve’s mouth. What would he do if Bucky leaned in? What would he say? Would he shove him off? Could Bucky then laugh as if it were a joke, or would the relationship be tainted with the knowledge that Bucky had wanted to kiss Steve and if Steve had let him, they would’ve kissed until the blood on his mouth was the only taste Bucky would ever yearn for again?

Bucky stopped and stepped back a little.

He’d never felt that way for a boy before and he didn’t know how to control it. So he simply said _No_ to the desire, and _No_ to the longing, and closed the door firmly. Some boys then burst into the toilets, laughing and joking with each other, and Bucky calmly wetted another piece of tissue to wipe away the smear of blood on Steve’s chin.

They bought ice cream and soda and forgot about the movie, and Bucky figured the feelings wouldn’t well up in his stomach again. That it was a strange moment, never to be repeated. And that on the off chance it would, he’d never succumb, never follow through and press his mouth against Steve’s like he did with girls, never slip his tongue against Steve’s lower lip and search for that taste of first-drawn blood.

And he never did give in – not for another fifty years, that is.

*

When Bucky lurched back from Steve, sitting at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, enclosed rocky walls around them, a sweeping star-filled sky above, and a dying campfire by their feet, Steve said, “You’re married,” like that was the issue here.

Still, Bucky sighed, full-body, and leaned back on his hands, putting some space between he and Steve like he wasn’t—wasn’t _soaring_. It was like his whole body was floating two inches off the ground; like he’d been waiting for that kiss for so long that his entire body had shuddered with the relief of finally getting it. And, well, he _had_ waited for a long time. Fifty years long, and now all the stress and tension flooded out of him.

Bucky Barnes had kissed Steve Rogers and the world hadn’t immediately ended.

He said, “Yeah, buddy. I am.”

The two of them sat in silence for a moment, Steve’s hand absently reaching up to his mouth and Bucky just watching the fire. He’d kissed _Steve Rogers._ He’d kissed the love of his _life._ It didn’t feel entirely real.

“I, uh,” Steve started, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “I—I didn’t know you… um. You—”

“Yeah,” Bucky said.

He’d found out Steve was supportive—if not simply okay with—homosexuals around the time it had been decriminalised. There wasn’t a way to hide the protests and rallies Bucky and Evie went to three weekends in a row, and it would probably seem odder if Steve had found he _was_ hiding it. So he’d said it as casually as possible, trying to seem as if he weren’t keeping something, and Steve had responded in a likewise excessively casual way, “Oh? Ah, yes, the homosexual—thing. Right. Yes. Maybe we—I, even, should join you next time.”

Now, maybe Steve was looking back on that memory in a new light. Maybe he was thinking back to _why_ Bucky was supportive, to _why_ he cared, and maybe his fingers were pressing so hard into his mouth to make himself feel something other than Bucky’s lips on his, and maybe this was a mistake, and Bucky shouldn’t have done a thing, and this secret should’ve stayed coiled up in the pit of his stomach until he died.

The relief dissipated instantly, and his muscles locked up.

“You’re married,” Steve said again, dropping his hand into his lap.

Bucky nodded, willing a subject change. Steve was staring a hole in the side of his head—could gazes burn? Bucky thought so. He picked up his beer and took a long swig.

“Bucky, you’re _married_ ,” Steve repeated.

“I’m aware,” he shot back.

“What—I don’t—you’re _gay?_ ”

“What?” Bucky asked. “No?” He sat forward, shooting a frown at Steve. “I’m not—”

“Bucky, you just—you _kissed me._ ”

The words felt harsh in the air. Bucky said, “Well—yeah. I did. I—I kissed you.”

They stared at each other. _Understand,_ Bucky willed. _Understand that I’m in love with you._ He’d been thrown, recklessly, between wanting Steve to know and wanting him to never have any inkling of the fact. But Bucky had kissed him, and now if Steve didn’t understand why, Bucky might lose the moment forever. He might lose the kiss, and the man, and even the peace that he’d felt only a minute before, when they’d been talking about forever with each other, like it was a given.

Only, Bucky couldn’t will the words to come out of his own mouth.

He couldn’t bear the thought of breathing them into the air and admitting that weakness.

So instead, Steve was arguing, “But you just—how are you not _gay?_ ”

_Is that the real issue here?_ Bucky wanted to throw back, but instead he replied, “I’m still—I love Evie. I just also—” _love you._

Steve hesitated. “I didn’t know that people could—well—”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “It’s not like I’m—I’m lying to her or anything.” _Just cheating on her instead,_ that voice in his head supplied. Because that’s what he’d done—he’d kissed Steve because he couldn’t hold out anymore, because his love was overwhelming and his desire was desperate—but he’d cheated on Evie in the process. The thought made him suddenly sick, but he said, “I’m—it’s not like I don’t _love her_.”

“You just—” Steve stumbled, “You’re just interested in—”

“You—”

“—Men, too.”

They went quiet. Then Steve whispered, “Oh.”

*

Bucky tried to memorise the constellations as Steve slept beside him. He tried to etch every burning ball of gas into his mind so he could recreate it when he returned to the city and looked up, only to see nothing.

*

They went hiking through the canyon the next day, and then started off home the day after. It hadn’t taken long to slip back into normality. One minute Steve had been looking at Bucky oddly from the other side of their camp, and the next he was laughing and telling an anecdote Bucky had already heard a thousand times.

The underlying message was clear to him: Steve didn’t feel the same way. But Bucky had made his peace with that fact decades before at his wedding to Peggy, when all Bucky wanted to do was yell _I object!_ and profess his love right there in the church, knowing it would be the scandal of the neighbourhood and possibly destroy his entire existence, right there in the moment. So this—Steve pushing past the awkwardness of reality and acting as if it had never happened—well, that was to be expected.

They bickered and laughed and joked the whole journey home. Days again out on the road, with the sun beating down and their windows wide open, letting the breeze whip at their faces. They bought gas station jerky and shared soda cans in the central cup holder; they played the same songs again and again as they were the only ones they’d brought along, and sung them repeatedly, out of tune and way too loud.

They went north, instead of east—taking a different route the way back, through the centre of the States, never straying too far from the warmth of the South, and eventually making it back to New York on a muggy day in July.

When Steve parked outside Bucky’s house, he said, “You’re married,” and Bucky stopped moving. He had been rummaging around the footwell for the empty soda can Steve had chucked at him a mile back, but now he froze.

Steve sighed and slowly, slowly, Bucky sat up.

Their neighbourhood looked unchanged in the two weeks of their road trip. They were bringing the change with them.

Steve spoke quietly. “You love Evie, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Bucky replied.

Steve nodded and levelled Bucky with an even gaze. “I think hurting her would be the worst thing you could ever do.”

“I agree.”

“So, don’t tell her.”

Bucky rolled his lower lip and said, “If she finds out later on, it’ll hurt more knowing I kept it from her.”

“You’ve kept it from everyone your whole life,” Steve replied. “How do you think she’ll feel? Do you think she’ll let it go easily? Or do you think she’ll look at you and wonder if you’re—if you’re in love with her at all?” It wasn’t unkind, the way Steve said it. It was honest, and sad, and all sorts of emotions Bucky didn’t want to page through. Despite the kiss, the _You_ —Steve was still Bucky’s best friend, and Bucky was Steve’s, and Steve was going through a divorce and didn’t want to see Bucky do the same.

Bucky asked, “Do you still love Peggy?”

“I’ll love her for the rest of my life. It’s just—sometimes love isn’t enough to make up for everything else.”

Bucky nodded, and fetched the soda can and righted it in the cup holder. He opened up the car door and found his things from the trunk, and met Steve by the driver’s side on the sidewalk, where they hugged tightly, briefly, and Bucky said, “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be.”

“It’s Heather’s first birthday next weekend,” Bucky said, trying to change the subject. “You got the invite, right?”

Steve hummed with a nod. “Still haven’t bought a present, though. What do you even get for a one-year-old?”

Bucky shrugged. “I got her a retro Bucky Bear and hope that it doesn’t seem narcissistic.”

Steve laughed and the door to the Barnes household opened up, Evie stepping out with her hair all pulled back and her feet bare.

“Hey, stranger,” she called, smiling and raising a hand to block the sun.

Bucky sent one last glance back to Steve before starting up the path and greeting his wife. He kissed her and said, “Hey, yourself.”

Steve got back in the car, and Bucky watched him drive home.

*

Rosie had her first child in the early months of 1982, some thirty-one years after she was born. Jason was three and Heather one-and-a-half. Charlie was working on a big drug-crime story and Sylvia had just bought a quaint brownstone with her husband. Rich was back in New York for a few months between trips to Antarctica, writing up his research and giving lectures at colleges around the country.

They were grown-ups, adults in their own rights, with driver’s licenses and homes and stories their parents had never heard before. They had their own secrets, too; their own private lives that bustled around them, completely separate from the ones they’d had in the small neighbourhood in the suburbs of Brooklyn.

Their parents had secrets, too. Peggy held a wealth of them by herself, but with Steve they shared stories of war and romance and arguments they’d never let their children hear. Bucky and Evie’s were different; they were secrets of dreams and nightmares and visceral, graphic retellings of the worst things Bucky had ever done.

He thought of that phrase often, in the run up to Rosie’s first baby. _The worst thing he’d ever done._ He’d killed and maimed and broken men bloody and brutal, knowing that the words they said in interrogation might turn out to be lies, and he’d hurt and sliced and destroyed them for no reason. And yet—the worst thing he ever _could_ do, was tell Evie that he was in love with Steve.

Worse than it all. Worse than his darkest moments and how many bullets he’d put through a Nazi in a field in France, was the fact that he’d kissed Steve and had desperately, dearly, wanted him to kiss back.

The doors to the waiting room swung open, and they all looked up. The Barneses and Rogers-Carter families had all come out for the event, even Rich, who’d ridden his bike as fast as humanly possible through the streets of New York to get there on time. Even Peggy had made it mere minutes before, as Jacob barged through the doors, his face alight.

He reminded Bucky a lot of Steve, the day Rosie was born, in fact. That same smile, the same awe and wonder in his eyes. He held a small bundle of blankets in his arms, clutched to his chest.

Jacob said, “It’s a boy,” and they were all on their feet, grinning and hugging and hoping to catch a glance.

Eventually, he was given the name Matthew, and he’d grown quickly to have blue eyes and blonde hair like his mother, and her father before her. And Bucky would invite himself to their house as often as he could; welcomed into the chaos and mess of the Hall house, where every surface was cluttered with deposition notes and files, with forgotten baby bottles and lost toys. It reminded him a lot of his first months as a father, and he’d sit with baby Matthew, ( _Hi, Matty,_ he’d said when he first held him, and Peggy had immediately scoffed and said, _Would it kill you to use a child’s full name just once?_ ) and rock him gently in his sleep while Rosie napped and Jacob cleaned the house from top to bottom, and Bucky would think, _I could steal you, but I won’t. I wouldn’t do that to Rosie_.

And often Steve would already be there, and Matty’s parents would be at work, and Bucky would have a quiet day in the small, cluttered house, with Steve and daytime TV and a baby.

*

Bucky considered, for a brief moment, once in the dark of night, lying next to Evie in bed, telling people about _It._ Not the Steve part, just the fact that _It_ existed, and _It_ was part of him. He fantasised about the announcement, even. About how it might go; family and friends and tears. He fantasised them purely positive; only hugs and well wishes, understanding and acceptance. He imagined Evie telling him _I still love you,_ and Steve saying, _I’m proud of you._ He thought about telling the world; sitting on another arm chair in another studio and releasing another little part of himself to the world; of saying, _I love men just like I love women,_ and _There’s nothing wrong with that,_ as much as those particular words were still not entirely true to him.

He imagined and fantasised and pictured it all, play by play. Embracing his children and listening to the applause of the in-studio audience. Kissing his wife and reading the positive headlines in the newspapers. Overcoming his internalised hatred and freely being himself for the first time since he was fifteen years old.

It was so real, in his head, that he thought he might actually do it. That he might wake up his wife and say _I’ve got something to tell you,_ or call a family meeting. He wouldn’t mention Steve – that was a secret he’d keep tight and hidden, an agreement they’d made. But Evie, in his head, wouldn’t spurn him for simply having the attraction. She wouldn’t hate him for who he was.

Bucky got so close to reaching out for her, to nudge her shoulder and wake her up. He never made it, each time, but got a little closer, a little braver.

And then the news started talking about the Gay Plague that would eventually be known as AIDS, and he clamped his mouth tight, shoved the feeling down, the fantasy away, and swore he would never breathe a word. Just because he wasn’t actively dating men didn’t mean people wouldn’t think the worst. It didn’t mean the mere concept near him wouldn’t destroy everything he had become.

Steve said, a month after the kiss, as he read the newspaper at Bucky’s kitchen table, “GRID.”

Bucky looked over from where he was washing up the breakfast plates. “What about it?”

“Gay-related immune deficiency.”

He looked away again. “Let’s not talk about it,” he said.

There was a pause. “Bucky—”

“I _said_ stop talking about it.”

So, Steve did.

*

GRID dominated the news, so Bucky avoided it. He stopped reading the headlines and watching the evening news. He went to work and did his job, though it was only for half the week, and spent the rest of it digging up the garden or repainting the kids’ bedrooms, something he’d been putting off for years.

They came back over the weekends to go through their childhood toys and paintings; making decisions about what could be thrown out and taken with them to their new homes. Bucky and Evie squirrelled away drawings from their toddler years and grainy photographs they found under their beds. They donated the furniture and redecorated the room with new double beds and walls a little less drawn on. Bucky replaced the stained and destroyed carpets – his kids had moved out ten years before and he’d neglected to change a thing about their rooms in all that time – and even took the doors off their hinges and repainted them in the yard.

“It’s like you’re erasing my entire existence,” Sylvia commented when she poked her head into her old bedroom. Bucky looked up from where he was screwing the frame of the new bed together and rolled his eyes.

“You’re standing right there,” he said. “I think we’ll remember your existence without keeping the curtains you set fire to.”

She scoffed. “I can’t believe you didn’t get rid of them a decade ago.”

“What can I say? I’m a sentimentalist.”

She hummed and stepped aside as Heather, knee-height with curly brown hair and a bouncy toddle, wandered into the room. She looked exactly how Sylvia had at two years old; all tiny with chubby cheeks.

“Need some help?” Sylvia asked with one eye on her daughter.

“If you’re offering.”

Sylvia stepped over the edge of the frame, swinging Heather up as she went, to settle her into her lap when she sat down. She dutifully passed over the screws Bucky asked for and held up the central frame piece while he screwed it in at one end.

“Has Steve redecorated Rosie and Rich’s rooms yet?” she asked as Heather giggled to herself.

“Hm? Oh yeah, years ago. He and Pegs cleared out their rooms by the time they were done with college.”

“How’s Matty doing?”

“Fine, last I heard. Teething and keeping Rosie up all night.”

She hummed. “I was at Charlie’s last week.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I think he and Marcy are trying to have another baby.”

Bucky looked over, surprised. “That’s great,” he said. “Jason could use a sibling. I don’t think he understands the concept of _sharing_ yet.”

Sylvia smiled, but it was vague, distant. Bucky frowned as he looked at it, and then sat back, ignoring the bed. “What’s up?”

“Hm?”

“You look distracted, like bed-building isn’t riveting to you.”

“Oh, _no,_ ” she said. “Building this bed is the highlight of my week.”

“You have a boring life, then,” he replied. “Seriously, Sylvie. You grew in this house for eighteen years. I know what that face means.”

“I’m not pulling a face.”

“Exactly. It’s the _lack_ of face-pulling. You’re not even trying to pull one.”

She looked hesitant, and then let herself watch Heather for a moment, as if that would make the expression vanish from her features. Instead, it just made her look more nervous than before.

Bucky shifted, climbing over the central beam of the bed so he could sit beside her. He automatically placed one hand in Heather’s when she made a grabbing motion for him and used the other to brush the hair from Sylvia’s face and tuck it behind her ear.

“Sylvie?”

“It’s nothing, Dad,” she said, sighing. “It’s really—it’s nothing.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, and at her next big sigh, pulled her into his side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“Sylvie,” he said, low, pressing a kiss into her hair. “What is it?”

“It’s dumb.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“I’m a—I’m a trained and licensed psychiatrist, you know? I have a PhD.”

“Sure.”

“So I’m good at emotions. Usually. At feelings and finding the root of them. Proactive solutions. You feel like this, so this is the action you should take to make yourself feel that way less often. Easy. I understand that. But when it’s—it’s _me_ , I don’t.”

“Okay.”

“I’m seeing two therapists right now.”

Bucky blinked. “Isn’t that expensive?”

She huffed out a laugh. “Therapist discount,” she said. “But, uh. One’s for me, and the other’s for my marriage.” Bucky swallowed. “So, I was talking to these therapists, and they both brought up a lot of good points, you know? Feelings of inadequacy stemming from having a larger-than-life, famous war hero of a father; difficulty communicating with Mark because his reaction to conflict is to yell and mine is to cry. It all makes sense, you know?”

“Sylvie—”

“Usually the problems are separate, but there was something that came up in—in marriage counselling, and that meant I had to bring it up with my personal therapist. Uh—Mark brought it up. I think we were just using that man to talk shit about each other in the session, and he said, he said, _Sylvia has problems—problems not being put first because she never did as a child._ ”

“What?”

“Yeah, he said it like it was a cheap shot, you know? Like, _Oh, Sylvia’s still dealing with a lack of attention—”_

_“What?”_

She looked up. “It’s not—I’m not. I mean, my therapist thinks maybe I am, but I don’t—it’s not something I’ve thought about since I was like, fifteen.”

“You and Charlie—baby, your Mom and I love you equally. We never tried to—”

“No, no, it’s not—”

“I’m sorry if—”

“Dad.” She sat up. Heather pulled herself out of Sylvia’s lap to go wandering, but Bucky caught her before she could. There were still screws and pieces of wood on the floor; she whined a little, and then quieted in Bucky’s grasp, settling herself in his lap. “Just, hear me out a second. I don’t think—I don’t think Charlie ever felt it, I mean, I talked to him as a teenager and he called me, and I quote, _batshit crazy._ ” Bucky frowned and belatedly placed his hands over Heather’s ears, making Sylvia roll her eyes. “Oh, come on, you’ve said worse around us as kids.”

“Yes, but we’re trying to be _better_ for the next generation than we were with you.”

She reached out and brushed a hand through Heather’s curly hair and her words seemed to come easier when she wasn’t looking at him. “When I was a teenager, I felt like you loved Rosie more than you loved us.”

“What?”

“And that, that, you wanted her to be your kid. Which—I know, before you say anything, it’s ridiculous. You love us. I _know_ you love us. I never felt like you didn’t—it’s just always been Rosie first, I think. I can’t… I can’t say the same about Rich. I know you loved both of them like they were your own—I know that because Steve has called Charlie and I his kids more than I can count; we’re like one giant family. I get that. I _like_ that. No one else I know gets to have a family like ours, and I love it. But—you put Rosie first, I think. It felt like it, anyway. Her stories always came before ours; those years they lived with us, her grades came first. I don’t—I don’t know. I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Sylvie,” Bucky interrupted. “Sylvie. I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you feel like that. I—you and Charlie have always come first to me. You two changed my whole life just by being born. You—I understand where you’re coming from, how you felt that way. I mean, Rosie was already three by the time you even showed up—I had all that time to know her and love her before you ever came along. And Steve—he was always my best friend. Anything—anyone—he loved, so did I. But I’m sorry, I am. I love you so much; I never want you to feel like that. And if it’s—if it’s fucked you up—”

Sylvia scoffed, belatedly shoving her hands around Heather’s ears and sending him a look. Her smiled back at her.

“Thanks, Dad,” she said, quiet. “I needed to get that out there. I’m not—I’m not fucked up by it. It was a low blow from Mark anyway.”

“Are you two going to be okay?”

“Hm? Me and Mark? Oh, no. We’re getting a divorce.”

Bucky blinked. “You didn’t think to lead with that?”

Sylvia laughed. “My personal moment of growth and understanding with my father is more important that Mark being a—” she covered Heather’s ears “—piece of shit motherfucker who seems all nice and quiet until you get him mad and then he’s a goddamn fucking—”

“Alright,” Bucky interrupted. “I get the point.”

Sylvia sent him a toothy grin, the kind that reminded him that he’d raised her just a slight bit feral. “I’m getting the house, though, I swear to you.”

He grinned. “If you need me to dig up some dirt on him, I will happily break the law for you, kiddo.”

She laughed and kissed his cheek before stealing her daughter back.

“That’s why I told you before Mom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh lol??? you thought???? when i said "slow burn"??? i meant only seven chapters???????? oh buddy,,,, sweetie,,, honey,,,,, we've got a long way to go,,, we're only in 1981,,,


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1982-1985

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember in chapter 1 when i was like, lmao probably 6 chapters!!! lol i thought
> 
> also, the big scene/second half/end of this chapter is one of my favourite moments in the story so far and something i've been waiting to write since like??? chapter 4 or 5??? very excited about it, i hope you enjoy!!

Tony Stark loved Steve’s dog. She was an Alsatian, almost thirty kilos, barely ten months old but already massive.

Her name was Gracie, and she was every bit energetic as Steve. They went on runs together, daily; Gracie taking Bucky’s place when he wasn’t available, and then happily running between them when he was. She was friendly with all the neighbourhood kids, pleasant to all the other dogs, and liked to lounge around as Steve read out in the yard or on his sofa. In the second week she was a part of their lives, Steve showed up with a box of treats and put them in the Barnes’ kitchen cupboard, as if they wouldn’t have gone and bought their own for her anyway.

She was strong, a little loud, and at least once a week led the local dogs in obnoxiously howling at the moon. She had a tendency to dig up the garden Steve worked tirelessly on, and to chew through all her toys. She knew where the food was kept and would scrabble at the pantry door if Steve had shut it, and if he hadn’t, leapt at the shelves in the hopes of reaching the kibble near the top, bringing down half the food cans in the process.

And Tony Stark, at age twelve, loved her.

Bucky and Tony didn’t see each other as often as Tony saw Steve, but that came down to Steve relentlessly being friends with Howard, even when Howard did everything he could to be irritating. When Howard had pestered Bucky for a few months after his check up in 1971 to get that bone marrow test and tell the world about his ageing so he could strongarm a few government secrets, Bucky had resoundingly said no and decided that maybe he wouldn’t take up Howard’s offer of a night on the town.

But Tony Stark was something different. He had the same inquisitive eyes he’d had as a baby, and he was growing up looking a little more like Maria than Howard—but he was smart. Incredibly, _ridiculously_ smart. If he kept going at this rate, Bucky was pretty sure he’d be in college in a few short years’ time, and that terrified him a little.

Gracie, too, took a shining to Tony, and it was on a day in November, a few months after the Grand Canyon, that they were stuck in the living room while it hailed and stormed outside. Howard was pacing, a glass of scotch in his hand, while Maria and Evie chatted in Steve’s kitchen with a pot of tea. They’d been fast friends the first time they met; Maria Stark had even shown up for several of Evie’s fundraisers and community fairs, signing checks like the zeros meant nothing at all.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and Howard was telling some war story with big hand gestures to Steve, who was probably listening more out of politeness than anything else. Bucky plainly ignored it. Instead, he watched Tony play tug of war with Gracie and lose, over and over. Every time, he laughed and moved so he could pick up the rope again and start the battle all over.

Every time, Bucky noticed, he changed tactics.

The fifth time, Gracie stood up and turned, and Tony watched as she butted her head into Bucky’s knee. Bucky leaned forward and scratched her behind the ear. She’d only been in their lives since September – the first post-marriage change Steve had made – but she’d quickly grown fond of them all.

Bucky took the rope just as Tony had, and tugged on it gently until Gracie realised he was attempting to take it and pulled back. Unlike Tony’s attempt, Bucky managed to win fairly quickly, and then promptly gave the rope back after Gracie’s first bark of annoyance.

“How’d you do that?” Tony asked, shuffling over on his knees. He rested his elbows on Gracie’s back and propped his chin in his hands.

“It’s easy, kid, you’ve been going about it the wrong way.”

Tony frowned. “What didn’t I do?”

“Pull hard.”

“What?”

“The trick is to be stronger than she is,” Bucky said with a smile, ruffling Gracie’s fur again. When he moved the hand away, she followed, and he patted her again.

“How strong _are_ you?”

Bucky hummed. “About as strong as Captain America, I’d guess.”

“Can you lift an elephant?”

“I’ve never tried.”

“Can you lift Gracie?”

“Sure, but so could many adults.”

“A motorcycle?”

“Yeah.”

“What about a motorcycle with _people_ on it?”

“Are they singing and dancing?” Bucky replied, and Tony scoffed. “You’ve been watching those old Cap reels.”

“Only once or twice. He did a whole performance, you know. _Who’s strong and brave, here to save the American way?_ ” Tony added the last bit in song and Bucky laughed. Seeing this, he continued, “ _Who vows to fight like a man for what’s right night and day?_ ”

“Tony,” Howard sighed, cutting off his story.

Tony stopped, but Bucky already had the song in his head now. He sang, “ _Who will campaign door-to-door for America—”_

 _“Carry the flag shore to shore for America,_ ” Tony grinned.

Then, together, Steve joining monotone for the final line: “ _For Hoboken to Spokane. The Star Spangled Man with a Plan!_ ”

Tony devolved into giggles and slumped onto the floor, Gracie following and landing half on his lap, as Bucky laughed and flopped back on the sofa. Steve sent him a dry look.

“Haven’t heard that song in a while.”

“No? I sing it in the shower most mornings, you should come over and listen to the concert some time.”

Steve rolled his eyes and Howard leapt back into his story, but Bucky winked down at Tony, who beamed back at him.

*

Steve’s divorce got finalised and then Sylvia’s did too, and when they were both divorced and single they threw a small _thank fuck for that_ party (in Sylvia’s words), where they all got drunk and happy and sang ABBA songs well into the night. The kids fell asleep early into the party, but not before they rode Gracie around like a horse, pretending to be cowboys and giggling all the way.

Bucky said, “You’re not married anymore,” as he and Steve smoked out in the yard.

Steve sighed and said, “Yeah. You and Evie are still good, right? I don’t think we can take another divorce.”

Bucky laughed and peered up at the half moon, the smoke dissipating in the air. “Yeah, buddy. We’re still good.”

*

In September 1983, Steve started art school in the city. It made the news, because Captain America was studying fine art at NYU, and then people mostly forgot and stopped caring. Bucky sometimes had lunch with Steve in the city between classes and before Bucky had to run back to the office, and when they were done, Steve would meet up with his twenty-year-old classmates who didn’t really look much younger than him at all, and life continued on as if it had always been this way.

In December the same year, Charlie and Marcy’s second child, Julia, was born, and Sylvia got a promotion. They all left the kids with babysitters and climbed in cars for New Year’s Eve, courtesy of Howard Stark, who had thrown many a fancy NYE party they’d been to over the years. Like all the others, it was upscale, ridiculously expensive, with socialites and government officials; members of Congress and supermodels, all laughing and drinking and dancing in an expansive ballroom, fit with a fountain, chandeliers and wide balcony to stand out on for the fireworks.

Then it was 1984 and the third Captain America movie came out. Bucky didn’t count the ones filmed out in Europe during the war with the actual Captain America and _real_ Howling Commandos – just the ones made afterwards, with Hollywood actors and drama out the wazoo. The first had come two years after the war, in ’47, focusing mainly on the relationship of Steve and Peggy, with cheap fighting and bad German accents. The second was in the sixties, and Bucky had declined to go to the premiere, as he was looking twenty years younger than his age, and instead took the family on a Saturday, and they all watched in mild horror as Steve’s story was butchered, and Bucky was played by a sixteen year old boy; his entire character rewritten as a reckless kid killed for shock value.

The third, though, was rumoured to be Arnold Schwarzenegger’s best role yet, and they all travelled to Los Angeles for the premiere, walked down the red carpet in suits, with their wives and children; all distantly familiar and intriguing faces to the press and public. The photos would show up in magazines; intensely saturated in colour: Bucky with Evie on his arm, flanked by the twins; Bucky and Steve grinning side by side, looking only a decade older than they had in the war; the Howlies all in a line. The film was not great and highly inaccurate but—

“At least they didn’t make me a dead kid this time,” Bucky said while they drank at the bar after.

“Pretty sure they made me a misogynist, though,” Steve replied.

Bucky shrugged. “Even trade if you ask me.” Steve whacked him on the arm and they dissolved into laughter.

It was 1985 when Bucky’s sister, Charlotte, died. He was sixty-eight, looking thirty-five, and she was sixty. It had been heart failure, the coroner announced, after Bucky’s baby sister collapsed in the kitchen and didn’t get back up. Her three children had all long moved out and started families of their own, and her husband, David, had been playing cards with his friends like he did every Wednesday night.

“They think she was dead for hours,” Becca choked out over the phone, and Bucky cried, and then stopped, and then cried some more when he realised he would have to do this again. And again, and again; because he had three sisters and three nephews and two nieces, and they’d all gone on to get married and have children of their own and he would _outlive them all._

“I can’t do this again,” he whispered to Evie the night of the funeral. They’d stood in black in the pouring rain, the dirt turning to mud so slick it was nigh impossible to bury Charlotte’s coffin. They’d sobbed into each other’s shoulders; the three remaining Barnes children hugging each other tightly. Now, their bedroom was dark and they sat on the bed, still in their funeral clothes.

Evie said, “I’m sorry, sweetie. I know what it’s like to lose a sibling.”

“But you won’t have to lose _everyone._ ”

“Bucky—”

“By the time I die everyone will be gone. You and the kids and probably their kids, too. Heather and Jason and Julia. I can’t—I can’t lose them all, Eve. I can’t go to my kids’ funerals. I can’t bury them.”

“Bucky.”

He sniffed. “I don’t _want_ to live forever. I want to die like everyone else. Give me thirty more years and be done with it.”

She shifted across the mattress. “Buck, you have something so special, so _rare_ that only two people alive have it. And you’re lucky enough—” He scoffed. “ _Yes,_ lucky enough that the only other person is your best friend. I would kill to have what you have. I would kill to live two hundred years with you.” He looked up, could barely even see the whites of her eyes, the vague outline of her body. She would be sixty-two in a few weeks. She would look her age. She had cut her hair back up to her shoulders and started wearing pink lipstick and she couldn’t go running as easily as she used to because her joints had started hurting in the morning.

They still danced, and they still loved it, but it wasn’t with the same energy they had in their youth—in _her_ youth.

“You talk about it like it’s a gift,” Bucky said. “But it’s not—not always. I’m gonna watch you die, Evie. I’m gonna be alone and—”

“You won’t be alone. You think Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes’ Number One Fan, would let that happen? And okay, yes, sweetie, I’ll die, but in every marriage someone has to go first.”

“That’s morbid.”

Evie laughed. “Life is morbid, Buck. We just do the best we can with what we’ve got. Appreciate every little moment you get—but baby, you’ll get double what everyone else has. I may get a hundred years on this planet but you’ll get _twice that._ You’ll see this entire world become something new. You’ll get to see the grandkids grow up, get to see their children grow too—God, what I would give to see them be as old as you and me. You could do this all again, if you wanted; a second family, a second life, another round of children and another chance to fuck them up in entirely different ways.”

Bucky laughed and Evie pressed her forehead against his temple. His eyes fluttered shut.

She hummed and he could hear the smile in it. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you not immediately saying _Oh no, Evie, I’d never marry again after you. You’re my one and only._ ”

He laughed. He felt a little like a liar. He pushed it away. “Oh no, Evie,” he drawled. “I’d never marry again after you—”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“Evie—”

“You’re gonna be young and handsome when you’re ninety,” she informed him, pulling back. “If you don’t marry again it’ll be a crime to women everywhere.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Besides,” she added, her voice taking on that mocking, airy quality, as she flicked on the bedside lamp and pulled herself to her feet. “I’ll be so terribly old soon enough; what will a handsome young man such as yourself want to do with me?” She sighed dramatically, the back of her hand flying to her forehead.

Bucky grinned. “You’re still the most beautiful woman in the room, you know.”

“This one?” she asked, breaking character. “Or all rooms? Be careful now—the answer matters.”

“All rooms,” he replied. “There will never be a woman as beautiful as you.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” she said. “Now I’m going to get naked, and I’d appreciate it if you would do the same.” Bucky laughed and Evie wandered to the closet, and he flopped back on his bed, almost seventy-years old and still young.

*

By the end of 1985, Tony Stark had started college at M.I.T. and Steve was starting his third year at art school. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with this degree; if he really wanted to quit consulting with S.H.I.E.L.D. altogether and be an artist full time, or if he was taking the degree just for his love of art.

When Christmas came around, they spent the day at the Barnes household. The twins and their partners – Marcy and Sylvia’s seven-month-strong boyfriend Ryan – stayed in their old rooms, the kids all bundling together in the guest room. In the morning, the Rogers-Carter clan all came over, including Peggy, who had taught herself to cook roast dinners to near perfection since she’d started living out in New Jersey.

It had been strange at first, but Peggy had been Bucky’s friend before she’d been Steve’s wife, and it wasn’t hard to fall back into familiar patterns; for one of his jokes to make her snort and for her to say something so quick-witted that Bucky had to take a moment out in the hall. They still saw each other occasionally at work and she was still his boss on high, but they rarely took time together anymore; to have coffee or lunch or a walk in the park. It was on Christmas day in 1985 when Bucky realised how much he’d missed her.

Dinner was a loud and raucous thing, not at all helped by Gracie, who managed to beg for food off just about everyone’s plates. They unwrapped presents and threw the balled-up wrapping paper at each other afterwards, gushing over gifts and cards and money stuffed in envelopes. It was with a distinct sense of déjà vu that Bucky watched Steve unwrap the sketchpad and paints he’d bought him.

At one point, Jason, now seven years old, pointed at a photo on the wall and said, “Daddy, what’s that?”

Charlie, with Julia and her new bear on his lap, looked in the direction of the photograph on the living room wall and said, “That’s when I got my Pulitzer prize.”

“I forgot about that,” Rich said, from where he sat on the floor with Gracie slumped over him. “Which article did you get it for?”

“The one about Dad,” Charlie replied. “It got called a _stunning investigation into the life of a war hero and the government’s willingness to cover up the truth._ ”

Marcy scoffed. “He practises that. Says it every night into the mirror.”

“Mm,” Sylvia said, “I don’t see my PhD graduation photo around here. Favourite child, much?”

“Over the dining table,” Evie recalled quickly. “Between Rich winning the Breakthrough Prize and Steve lifting Gracie over his head.”

Then they were looking back over all the photos on the walls; the Barnes household had more photographs than they did wall by this point. There were the weddings, all easily accessible in one space of the study; the births by the hearth in the living room. There were images from school picture day and posed family photos lining the stairs, as well as the large-scale movie posters in the landing hall. There were, of course, a few of Steve’s paintings. The family painting in the dining room, the one of he and Bucky in the master bedroom. There was another of the four kids on the mantel, a fourth of just the twins upstairs.

It was when Bucky was showing Heather and Jason, the oldest of the grandkids, the wedding photos that Heather said, “Where’s Uncle Rich?”

“Hm?”

“Where’s Uncle Rich?” she repeated. “There’s Mommy, and there’s Uncle Charlie—”

“Daddy!”

“—And there’s Auntie Rosie and Uncle Jacob. And there’s you and Nana, and Stevie and Peggy. Where’s Uncle Rich?”

Bucky looked up at the photos and then back down to Heather’s questioning face.

“Uncle Rich hasn’t ever been married,” he said.

Heather’s frown was deep. “Why not?”

“I’m not sure. You’d have to ask him.”

“Maybe I will,” Heather announced.

“It might be rude to ask him in front of everyone else,” Bucky warned. “If you want to ask him, you should do it really quiet, or when he’s alone.”

She looked to Jason. “You can distract the others and I’ll ask him why he’s not married.”

Jason nodded like this was a mission he would die to undertake. Despite him being two years her senior, Heather was the leader. She’d grown up with all of her mother’s management skills while Jason had inherited his grandfather’s ability to choose a single person and be willing to do anything for them. This, for him, was Heather, and he made it clear regularly, whether it was by eating her broccoli at dinnertime or putting his jacket in a muddy puddle so she could walk over it, like he had seen in a movie.

Only a few minutes later, Jason fake tripped and then started scream-crying in the doorway to the living room, while Bucky watched on, rather impressed. The tears were incredibly authentic-looking. And his unwillingness to be taken out of the room by his parents meant everyone had one eye on him while Heather plonked herself down next to Rich and whispered, “Uncle Rich, Papa said I should ask you _REALLY_ quietly: why aren’t you married yet?”

Rich looked between Jason’s howling, Heather’s complete indifference to her cousin’s pain and Bucky, standing nearby because he was dying to see what Rich would do. All four of the kids were intelligent, and they’d taken their intelligence in different directions. Rosie was excellent with words and the law; Charlie at uncovering stories and finding the truth; Sylvia with psychology and mental health. Rich, however, was classically intelligent; he had excelled always in mathematics and science. He hadn’t won a Breakthrough Prize for nothing; his work in Antarctica had been so long and difficult to understand Bucky had only read about two paragraphs of his research paper.

So when Rich looked between the distraction and Heather’s imploring gaze, he came to the correct conclusion quickly. “Did you put Jason up to that?”

“Don’t you worry about Jason,” Heather replied. Bucky’s hand shot up and he pressed it to his mouth to stifle the laugh.

“You want to know why I’m not married?”

“Yes please.”

Rich hummed. “I haven’t found anyone I want to marry yet.” Bucky heard the lie in his voice, but he didn’t say anything. Just waited until Heather had questioned _Are you sure?_ twice before letting it go and making an owl noise.

Jason immediately stopped flailing and said, “I’m okay now.”

Bucky watched Rich hide his laughter.

*

Richard James Rogers was the quietest of the four kids. He always had been. He’d stepped into the background when he was fourteen and he’d stayed there ever since.

He was the youngest by a year at thirty-two years old and was regarded in his community as an impressive and high-achieving environmental scientist, studying something to do with ice caps, and also the atmosphere, and also pollution. Again, Bucky had only made it two paragraphs into his paper.

He’d never once brought home a girlfriend, mentioned having one, or even an _interest_ , and spent much of his time travelling between Antarctica, where his research took place, and the Bronx, where he rented a cheap apartment and played some game called _Dungeons and Dragons_ with his other science friends.

Even as a child, he was happy to be quiet, to be soft. He was six-foot-one, though, and while he didn’t have an interest in exercising, his body took on a naturally lean shape, like he did it regularly. He’d once said, some ten-or-so years before, that it was probably because of the super soldier serum.

“What?” Steve had asked, blinking owlishly. It had been at a family dinner, much like Christmas day in 1985, but with no grandchildren and no dogs.

“It’s basic evolution,” Rich said, waving his fork vaguely around. “Just like how I’m blond with blue eyes; Dad’s genes are the stronger ones, probably enhanced by the serum. It’s entirely possible we all have watered-down versions of the super soldier serum – and what does it do? Increase life expectancy, brain capacity, strength etcetera. I can’t be the only one who noticed that the only two super soldiers in existence had four incredibly tall, high-achieving children with their colouring and resemblance, and rather excessive metabolisms?”

The table had been deadly silent for a moment, then Bucky asked, “Do we need to call Howard?” and Peggy said, “I have my own people now. Let’s not bother him with that.”

All four had undergone a few simple tests, and the results had been clear and daunting: just as Rich had assumed, diluted versions of the super soldier serum ran through their veins.

“Their bodies are ageing naturally,” the scientist Peggy had bothered with it had told them, “so it’s likely they’ll age at a regular rate but last a bit longer than the average life expectancy. They’ll probably also have the dominant genes in their reproduction, too.”

And then Peggy had ordered the tests to be destroyed and never to be spoken of again, and they’d left the office, and Rosie had said, “Cool, I’m fifty-percent super soldier. Wanna get milkshakes? I want a milkshake.”

*

In the evening, after Steve and Bucky had smoked in the garden, and Gracie had pissed over Evie’s flowers in direct disobedience to Steve’s orders to do it over Bucky’s vegetable patch, Rich stepped outside, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Jason could be an actor,” Rich said as a greeting. “Had me fooled.”

“Not for long.”

Rich shrugged. “Took a shot in the dark. Heather’s a frightening little thing.”

“She’s gonna be president one day,” Bucky informed him. “I can already see it.”

Rich moved beside Bucky and stared out across the backyard, looking up at the moon and stars overhead. Bucky would bet a lot of money that Rich had seen more beautiful skies; that he’d seen the aurora borealis and skies lit up with the universe overhead. Still, he stared at the moon now like it was just as wonderful as anything else he might’ve seen, before asking, “Why’d she want to know, anyway?”

“We were looking at the wedding photos.”

He hummed. “Still got Sylvie’s up? And Dad’s?”

Bucky nodded. “I’ve been thinking about cutting Mark out of Sylvie’s though. Didn’t really know what to do with it after they divorced.”

Rich shuffled from side to side in the cold. “Do you wanna know?”

“Hm?”

“You know. Heather’s question.”

“You said you hadn’t found someone you wanted to marry,” Bucky replied. Rich eyed him sceptically and Bucky shrugged. “I can take that answer if that’s what you wanna give me.”

Rich exhaled a smile, shaking his head. “I always loved coming here, you know. Mom’s all tense from work all the time and Dad’s all tense because Mom’s _at_ work all the time. But you and Evie were always so _relaxed_. I mean, I know you had that one breakdown—”

“Get to the point, kid,” Bucky interrupted.

“Right, right. I just mean—I love my parents, don’t get me wrong. But I never wanted to have a relationship like theirs. I wanted one like yours.”

Bucky nodded. “I get it. It’s not—it’s not an easy thing to find. And you don’t even know that you’ve got it until you’re already thirty years down the line.” Bucky thought of Sylvia, marrying a quiet and sweet man who turned scary and volatile when angry. He thought of Steve, marrying a good and kind woman who would place her work above her family. He thought of himself, marrying a loving and supportive wife, who had somehow stood by him, despite everything he’d put her through. He said, “If you want that, I’m sure you’ll find her.”

Rich hummed. “Uh. Him.”

“What?”

Rich cleared his throat and ducked his head. “Find _him_ , not her.”

Bucky blinked. He ran the sentence through his head again. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He coughed, studied Rich; the blond hair, the blue eyes, the resemblance of Steve in the cheekbones and draw of his mouth. And he was—

“Oh, right.” Bucky swallowed. “Have you—uh, did you—do your parents know?”

Rich shook his head. He didn’t look at Bucky. “Not yet. I, uh, I remember you and Evie went to those protests when I was a kid. The ones about—”

“Yeah. Right. Yes.” Bucky nodded. “Have you told—um, anyone?”

“Not, like. Not, properly. I—” he coughed, glanced behind him at the closed backdoor, the yellow light inside. “I dated a few—briefly. So, they knew. I guess. Not, like, friends. Or anyone.”

“So, I’m—”

“The first. Yes.” Rich nodded.

Bucky swallowed. He considered, just for a flicker of a heartbeat, telling Rich that he felt the same way about men that he did. That he understood. That he saw the same kind of love mirrored in Rich that he found in himself. But he also recognised that Rich was a little different; that Bucky could hide in loving women, too; that it protected him from everything he feared, and yet Rich couldn’t do the same. He hadn’t agreed with _her_ —he’d corrected Bucky, and that said enough.

So Bucky turned to him, turned to the boy he helped raise, and lifted his hand until he’d clasped his cheek, catching the flinch and pushing through it, gently tilting Rich’s face until he was looking at Bucky in the eye. In the light of the house, Bucky could see Rich struggling to hold in the tears. They welled, threatening to fall.

Bucky thought for a moment back to his fantasies of telling people, and then said what he’d imagined they would say to him.

He said, “I love you, kid. No matter what.” Rich blinked in surprise and the first tear fell. Bucky smiled. “You are fucking exceptional. You’re so smart and so talented, and anyone—any _man_ —would be lucky to have you. This is who you are, kiddo, and I’m so proud of you.” Rich gasped out a breath and squeezed his eyes shut, tears slipping fast down his cheeks.

Bucky pulled him in for a hug and let Rich clutch at him so tight he thought he would stop breathing. He continued in his ear, “Thank you for telling me. For trusting me. You’ve always got a place here, okay? I’ve always got a place for you.”

Rich cried in the dark on Christmas day, and Bucky held him until he quietened, until he was just sniffing and pressing the balls of his hands hard into his eyes. And they waited until he looked less like he’d been crying for them to go inside and play board games and drink wine well into the night.

And Bucky thought, _He is braver than me,_ and he also thought, _Maybe one day I can be like him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> i've been planning for rich to be gay since like,,,,,,, chapter 4 or something. and i couldn't tell for a long time whether he'd be inspired BY bucky to come out, or if he would do the inspiring himself. so that's really cool, i'm really happy i got to write him in this way, especially as he's very much the Forgotten Child of the group
> 
> also, hoooo boy another breakdown for bucky is anyone keeping count of how many that is now?????
> 
> please leave me comments! tell me your thoughts!! ily guys sm thank u for reading!!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1985-1989

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reason why i know there will be at least 14 chapters: i have already written 13 and i'm barely in the 21st century
> 
> any uhhhhh references to captain marvel might be a little incorrect. i watched some of the film literally this morning and realised i'd fucked up half of it lmao, so just... deal with it

“Wait,” Sylvia said on the other end of the phone, “tell me again why you made Steve a new dining table?”

Bucky sighed. “You ever just look at something and go _I could do that. Why are they selling that when I could just… do that?_ ”

“Sure.”

“It was like that.”

“So Gracie runs full-tilt into the leg of the dining table, busting it straight out, and while you’re shopping with Steve, you just go, _Hey, I’ll make you a new table?_ ”

“The prices were extortionate, Sylvie,” Bucky replied. “You would’ve done the same.”

“No, I would’ve just bought the table.”

“Well, now you won’t have to, because I know how to make them.”

There was a pause. “Semi-retirement’s really boring you, huh?”

“I’m _SO_ bored.”

*

Maybe only a few months after the Grand Canyon, the truth had settled within Bucky’s chest: Steve did not love him back.

He ached over it for a while and then faced it. He could not spend the next hundred years of his existence pining for someone who would never feel the same way. He would pack the feelings back up, wedge them deep between his ribs, and leave them there.

He would get on with living and appreciating what he had.

He would not desire after Steve again.

*

The eighties carried on as expected. They went to concerts and parties and dinners hosted by family and friends and the occasional colleague. Captain America made a speech or two in full military dress and shaved his post-divorce beard clean off. Gracie, the giant Alsatian, made a ruckus wherever she went and Steve watched on, gleeful in the chaos.

The Captain America movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger bombed and Dum Dum waved a hand and said, _They’ll make another one in twenty years, just you wait._

In ’86, Sylvia’s boyfriend proposed and in ’87, they had a little girl called Holly, the first grandchild that didn’t take on the super soldier appearance of their grandfather and grew with vivid red hair and green eyes. Heather, seven at the time, took extreme joy in having another child in her pack that would follow her around and do her bidding. Jason, at nine, still looked at her like she had all the answers, while Matty, five, and Julia, four, were just excited to chase her along and carry her bag when she asked.

“For a Barnes child,” Becca commented as she watched even her own grandchild, Tommy’s six-year-old, Shawn, follow Heather through the garden-slash-enemy-lair, “she’s got an awful lot of Peggy Carter in her.”

In ’88, Jacques Dernier succumbed to liver cancer and within two months, Gabe Jones followed him out with a lung infection that took him to the grave. Their funerals were crowded and rowdy, the bars after filled with singing and drinking. The remaining Howlies: Steve and Bucky and Dum Dum and Morita, all toasted their friends, leaving the three shots remaining shots on the table in their honour.

Bucky cried again, and Evie held him once more, and then later, after Gabe’s wake but before the plane ride home, Steve found him and said, “Three down,” with a heavy sigh.

“I don’t want to watch them all go,” Bucky told him, his voice a little hollow.

Steve said, “Maybe we could live out the second half of our lives on a mountain somewhere. No one around for miles; no one would even know where to find us. We could just… have a farm, grow vegetables, never even know who’s living and dying next.”

Bucky sniffed. “We’d miss the kids grow up if we did that.”

“We could bring them with us I guess,” Steve replied. “They can put their fancy degrees to use looking after cows and chickens.”

And then, in 1989, Bucky got called into work on his day off.

“Carter,” he greeted when he made it into the Camp Leigh base a little while before noon. “You know I don’t work Mondays.”

“You don’t work most days,” she replied, brisk and nodding him along. “You brought your overnight bag, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. We’ll be heading off in twenty—could you wrangle the keys for the Lincoln from Billson? You’re driving, I’ve got a lot of paperwork to do on the road.”

Bucky frowned. On the call, he’d been told they were heading out of state, and that he’d been specifically requested – he wasn’t told much more than that. “Where are we headed?” he asked, keeping pace with her down the crowded hall.

“Nevada.”

Bucky spluttered, “ _Nevada?_ Carter, that’s days of driving—”

“Good thing we’re only driving as far as the airstrip. I’ve got a plane waiting for us—take off at thirteen-hundred hours. Seven hour flight, touch down by twenty-one hundred, then be out on the scene by twenty-two.”

Bucky grabbed her arm briefly and they stopped at a cross section of the hall. Other agents and soldiers flooded around them. “You do remember I’m not a field agent, right?”

She smiled. “There’ll be no action of the sort. I just need my best head for this. And possibly my most intimidating.”

The scene in Nevada was on a lake. Bucky had spent most of the flight reading and napping, while Peggy filed paperwork the whole way through. They landed on the Joint NASA USAF Facility in Nevada; a private military-government base with its own airstrip, and though it was pitch black, Peggy requested to see the scene.

She had not told Bucky much at all. Bucky thought it was because Peggy didn’t know much about what they were seeing, either. Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Robert Keller, met them on the strip.

“There’s not much to see at this time of night,” he warned, but they went anyway, climbing onto a small boat and heading out to the island in the centre of the lake, where the plane had gone down. “It was an unauthorised test flight,” Keller explained once on the island. The Facility had already brought over flood lights and tented the area to avoid overhead snooping; large canvas and plastic tents covered the island, glowing white from within.

Inside, there was carnage.

A plane; one made for combat, as far as Bucky could tell; broken into shards and torn into pieces. The wreckage was still smoking, but what caught Bucky’s eye was the engine, glowing a faint blue.

He stepped closer, frowning, and then crouched nearby. There was a discharge; an aura to the glow, and it felt familiar. It felt like something he had once known. The blue curled and floated around the engine encasement, until Bucky said, “Tesseract energy,” and knew he was right.

“Sorry, Barnes?” Peggy asked from behind him. They hadn’t realised he’d moved so close to it.

“It’s Tesseract energy.”

Keller looked to Peggy for direction, but she kept her face carefully neutral. “My best head,” she said, unsurprised. “You recognised it?”

“It’s like—the plane. The Valkyrie.” Peggy raised an eyebrow. “When the Tesseract opened up and sucked Red Skull into—nothingness.” He took a breath, looking back to the engine. “It feels exactly like that.”

Bucky didn’t think about his time on the Valkyrie often. It had played a starring role in a few choice nightmares, but beyond that, Bucky hadn’t needed to talk it out with a therapist in years. It was unknowable, not of this planet, and impossible to wrap his head around. _Alien,_ someone once said. _Fuck off_ , he’d replied. But the Tesseract was foreign, impossible to have been made on Earth, and it ached to think about.

But there it was—in the engine of a plane that crashed during a test flight.

Bucky asked, “What the hell is it doing out here?”

“Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S.,” Peggy said, an hour later in the privacy of an office she’d sequestered. It was sometime around eleven p.m. and Bucky just wanted to sleep. He wanted this day to be over with already. Why had Peggy wanted him along? “S.H.I.E.L.D. created it to study the Tesseract, to get answers about its creation, its potential, its _uses._ Doctor Wendy Lawson led the division, and it was her plane that crashed out on the island.”

“And her body on the ground,” Bucky replied, staring at the file in his hands. Wendy Lawson’s body had been bloodied all over, some way from the seat she would’ve crashed in. Neither seat on the aircraft had ejected. The black box from the wreck was still to be found, but the marks in the dirt indicated she’d gotten up—she’d _moved_ , she’d possibly even survived the crash. And then there was her pilot. “Captain Carol Danvers,” Bucky said, flipping the page.

Captain Carol “Avenger” Danvers. The Air Force pilot who’d taken the plane up with Lawson. Women were barred from piloting combat, so the only way they could do what they loved was to join the testing division, and Lawson’s project. Danvers was twenty-five, blonde, and declared missing. She’d been in the Asis aircraft, as the file said the plane was called, as witnessed by Danvers’ best friend and co-pilot, Captain Maria “Photon” Rambeau.

The plane had crashed that morning, and Peggy had immediately been called to clean up.

“Captain Carol Danvers,” Peggy repeated.

“Where the hell is her body?”

“They’re still looking. The signs on the ground indicate a struggle, though.”

“Between Danvers and Lawson?” Bucky asked, disbelieving. “Every report here says they got along excellently.”

“But who the hell else would be on that island?” Peggy asked, and Bucky didn’t have an answer.

The next morning, they went back over the case and headed over to the island again. It was all as it had been the night before, but in the light of day, it looked worse; looked like a shitshow.

The base had already issued a statement about a test flight crash, about there being at least one causality, about an investigation being launched. Bucky _was_ that investigation. He walked the island, marked missed evidence and pieces of shrapnel, listened to all the witness statements.

“I’ve got something,” he sighed, crouching beside a small pink flag he’d stuck in the dirt. It was half a military dog tag—he’d seen his own enough times to know what one might look like. It read _CAROL DAN—_ it was only a shard. “She definitely made it this far,” he said to Keller, who wandered over. “If her body’s not here, it means she made it out of the crash.”

“She might’ve tried to swim for it and drowned,” Keller replied. “There’s no clear answer here, Barnes.”

They both stood and looked around the island; the smouldering trees, the kicked-up sand. This was a Tesseract project. Bucky thought the cube should’ve been hidden away and left to rot; should’ve been forgotten, ignored, left to history. Instead, they’d played with technology they didn’t understand and a woman was dead.

“Carter said she wanted me for intimidation purposes,” Bucky said. “Who’s not complying?”

“Glad you asked,” Keller replied. “You’ll meet them this afternoon when we retrieve Lawson’s research. United States Air Force considers it their property.”

So Bucky talked to the head of the Air Force on the base, then when he was denied several times, he simply pulled the locked door hard enough to force it open and took the research himself. He felt vaguely useful, for a moment, until he discovered her books were fucking ridiculous; filled with foreign symbols and code.

Peggy took one look and said, “Send it to a cryptologist. Maybe they know what it means.”

“It means she was crazy,” Bucky replied, “or the Tesseract made her batshit.”

Peggy raised an eyebrow at him as an agent took the research and they wandered the concrete halls of the Facility. “You think the Tesseract can do that?”

“I think I came face to face with Red Skull on more than one occasional, and that guy was out of his fucking mind.”

She hummed. “He had used the serum, don’t forget. That enhances… mental illness, narcissism—”

“He got sucked through a wormhole into outer space,” Bucky replied. “He talked of being a _god._ Man was off his rocker. And if Lawson’s the one you let spend all that time with the Tesseract—who’s to say that its not the cause of the—the writing. Her rambling yesterday morning. Rambeau’s report stated she was agitated, claiming she had lives to save, she _had_ to go up in the Asis on the day that it would crash.”

“You think Lawson made it crash?”

“I think the black box is either missing or destroyed, and Captain Danvers has been described as hard-working, dedicated, and a passionate pilot who wanted nothing in this world but to fly. She’s got no cause, and she’s still missing.”

“So what’s the verdict?”

Bucky shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think we’ve got all the pieces, I don’t think we’re gonna _get_ all the pieces. I think at this point, we label Danvers M.I.A., Lawson K.I.A., and cover the whole mess up.”

Peggy nodded, and the two of them stopped by a large, panoramic window that lined one side of the hall. It overlooked the base, the aircrafts out on the tarmac. The planes Danvers and Rambeau piloted were out there, waiting, as if Danvers would really come back for them. They’d walked past them that morning, marked _AVENGER_ and _PHOTON_ in white paint. Rambeau, according to her file, had a five-year-old daughter, and both had been incredibly close to Danvers—they would have to go on, not knowing what happened to her.

Bucky knew he would continue working the case for a few weeks before giving in a report. He’d look at as many angles as possible, from foreign intervention to fucking _aliens_ , if asked—but there was no body, no evidence. They’d scour the lake for Danvers’ corpse, but he didn’t think they’d find it. She wouldn’t stagger away from the crash only to go for a swim. She wouldn’t have left Lawson’s body if she couldn’t have helped it.

“Sometimes I look at you and think _This is your calling,_ ” Peggy said, tearing her gaze from the view. “And other times I want nothing more for you than to get out of this agency before it’s too late.”

Bucky frowned at her. “I can’t tell if I should say thank you or not.”

“I just mean… If you wanted it, you could be Director.” Bucky blinked. “Hell knows you’ve got the leadership for it; the respect of the agents. You take secrets to the grave, have a friendly enough personality that you get along with even the people you hate most in this world—hell, you’re going to live a hundred years longer than anyone else is; what more could you ask for from a boss?”

“What are you saying, Pegs?”

“But I also think that being Director needs a certain personality type,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “You need to be whole-heartedly dedicated to the cause, need to be willing to sacrifice and give up all the things that maybe you shouldn’t. You need to be willing to do things for the greater good, rather than focus on the individual. You care about this case, Barnes, because there’s a dead scientist on that island, and a missing pilot to search for. When you investigate, you’ll do it because their families deserve answers. You’ll do it because you’ll want to _find_ Danvers. Keller and I—we care about this case because it’s Tesseract technology that can _not_ get into the wrong hands. We care because it’s a high-ranking military scientist, head of a classified division, and an aircraft fuelled by an alien source.”

Isn’t that what he had always said? Peggy Carter cared about the big picture and Bucky Barnes cared about the little one.

She said, “If you hadn’t taken semi-retirement however many years ago, you would be Deputy Director right now, not Keller, despite all that.”

“But then I’d also be missing my grandkids grow up,” he replied.

Peggy’s gaze flittered back to the view. “Like I said,” she told him quietly, “a Director needs to be willing to sacrifice even the things she shouldn’t for the job.”

“Is Keller going to be Director?” Bucky asked.

“Yes. I’m announcing my retirement in January. I’d like to continue, of course, but I’ll be fifty-nine by April, and, well… the world will be in good hands with Keller. I think I need to spend some time making up for what I missed.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean… Do you remember Daniel Sousa?” Bucky thought back—Daniel Sousa had been an agent in the Strategic Scientific Reserve right before it became S.H.I.E.L.D. He’d lost one of his legs in the war before that, and Bucky had known him rather well when they worked in the same office, albeit in very different departments.

“I think so,” Bucky replied. “He married that blonde lady.”

“Yes, he did. And they were very happy, and then she died about ten years ago.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve been—seeing him, recently.”

Bucky blinked.

“And I was thinking that maybe—maybe this is my second chance. I f—I fucked it up with Steve, I know that. I expected him always to be there at home when I was done, and I expected him to want the same things as me; to do this job until we’re old and grey and bitter. I don’t think I… _considered_ what having children meant; about how involved parenting should be. I thought it would just… happen. Or, no, I didn’t think. I didn’t think about it at all. But Steve _did_ —and he wanted to be there for it all. First steps, first words, first days at school, at college. Utterly enamoured with them both from the moments they were born. I love them both, of course, _dearly_ —but I never took the time to understand what loving them meant.”

Peggy shook her head, and Bucky watched her; greying at the temples and regal like royalty. She still wore heels without complaint, still styled her hair and wore beautiful, fancy clothes. She was still Peggy Carter; the one he got drunk with in their tiny, boxy apartment; the one who would dance with him at the halls, though she much preferred dancing with Steve; the one who’d loved him as a brother for forty years.

Bucky wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her gently into his side. She seemed surprised and then settled in, her head on his shoulder.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked, quiet.

He still found it in him to smile. “No, Pegs. I’m happy for you. Everyone deserves a second chance. And Sousa—he was always a good guy. Can I ask you a question, though?”

“Of course.”

“If you’re retiring, why aren’t you trying to win Steve back?”

Peggy looked up at him, a crinkle between her brows. “I’ve lost him, Bucky,” she said quietly. His name sounded funny on her lips after a lifetime of _Barnes_ and _James._ “I had him and I lost him, and he deserves better than me running after him now, seven years after the divorce, trying to drag him back somewhere he’s already been. He deserves his second chance, too.”

Bucky nodded and they stared out at the view. A land rover drove into sight; the one carrying Lawson’s body. Soldiers congregated on the flat, watching it arrive.

“Oh,” Peggy said, surprised. He followed her gaze, and there, by their feet, was a small, orange cat, watching out the window beside them.

“That’s Goose,” Bucky said. “I met him this afternoon.” He’d curled around Bucky’s feet in the hall when he was on his way to get Lawson’s research, and had taken five minutes to scratch the cat behind the ears first.

Peggy sniffed and the three of them watched the stretcher with Lawson’s covered body be taken from the back of the car and passed over to the coroner’s vehicle. The sun was starting to set over the horizon.

Bucky had a thought.

“Pegs, do you want me to tell Steve or are you gonna?”

She sighed with a laugh. “Thank _God_ you asked. I really didn’t want to do it myself.”

*

Bucky worked the case, as promised, for a few more weeks. He took every witness and character statement, tallied up all the facts, and counted the questions that couldn’t be answered. Where was Captain Danvers’ body? Had the crash been due to pilot error? Where was the black box? The energy blast to the chest that killed Lawson—was it the Light Speed Engine or something else? And where _was_ the Tesseract? The cube itself was no where to be found on the base, and the disappearance had gone unreported by Lawson. Had she moved it? Stolen it? Destroyed it?

He filed all those questions away and returned to Nevada after for the takeover of the base; the Air Force relinquishing control and Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S. shutting with the discovery of the missing Tesseract. It made Bucky’s body tense with nerves; a missing Tesseract could spell danger for them all; the power it held was unknowable, and no one had come forward about its disappearance.

In the end, they marked the case unsolved, left it open but to grow cold in the file room of the base, and locked the door on it and Lawson’s research. He classified all the files, blacked out the words himself, and left it all to rot. He issued sincere apologies to Maria Rambeau, who was desperate for answers; the only family Danvers had left and watched her with a frown as she bit back a sob and said goodbye.

He petted Goose on the way out, a few hours later, and said, “Wasn’t this Lawson’s cat? Who’s looking after him now?”

“He’ll stay here, I guess,” an agent who worked there said. “We’re all well used to him.”

Bucky gave Goose a final head scratch and then climbed in his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued car. His flight wouldn’t be for several hours yet.

There were many reasons why he wouldn’t make a good Director—why he didn’t _want_ to be one. Peggy had covered her bases fairly succinctly, and he agreed; fifteen years ago, he might’ve been able to grow into the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.—but he would’ve missed the moments he deemed vital; the family dinners and birthday parties; the baby showers and quiet nights babysitting or lying on the sofa with a good book. He would’ve abandoned the soft, the meaningful, and replaced it with the harsh reality of law enforcement, of all the bad, all the danger, all the wars that Peggy dealt with and held off every day at Camp Leigh.

But it was this reality of Bucky understanding family in a way Peggy was only just beginning to learn that meant he couldn’t be Director. Because the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. was not allowed to return to the file room and steal a piece of evidence, and that was exactly what he’d done.

The driveway up to the Rambeau house was long and gravelled. On either side, vividly green grass stretched into woodland, and a homey, large farmhouse stood at the end. Outside, a small plane and a Camaro sat side by side, next to tables and workbenches of tools and parts.

Bucky parked and headed up to the door. There was a bench out on the porch, nice curtains in the windows. As he waited, he caught sight of Captain Danvers’ Mustang, sitting off to the side—her address had read some small apartment building a couple miles down the road, and he’d visited it a few weeks before to find it mostly bare and rarely used. According to everyone and their mother, Carol spent more time at the Rambeau residence than at her own home.

Maria Rambeau opened the door with a child on her hip. Both had dark skin and deep brown eyes, though Maria’s hair was cropped short, compared to her daughter’s, long and curly.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she greeted uneasily. “I thought you would be outta Nevada by now.”

“Flight’s in a few hours,” he agreed. “May I come in for a moment?”

She hesitated and stepped aside. While she shut the door, Bucky glanced at the photos on the wall; of Rambeau and Danvers and the little girl. They looked like a family.

Rambeau said, “Would you like a coffee?”

“Oh, I can’t stay long,” he replied, but followed her through to the kitchen anyway. “I just wanted to speak briefly with you before I left for New York.”

She hummed. “I thought you were a city boy.”

“I’m glad I give off that impression,” he replied.

Once in the kitchen, she set down her daughter, who immediately ran off into the adjoining dining room, and climbed onto a chair. There were colouring pencils and paper strewn about the table for her to work with.

He watched her for a moment and said, “Her names Monica, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How old is she now?”

“Just turned five last month,” Rambeau replied. “You got any kids?”

He looked away from Monica and nodded. “Two, officially. And four grandkids.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Right, right. You look thirty but you’re actually—”

“Seventy-two.”

She blew out a breath. “Holy shit,” she whispered. “That’s gotta be weird, waking up in the morning and seeing yourself in the mirror.”

He shrugged. “You get used to it.”

“Do your kids look _older_ than you?”

He paused. “Not yet. It’s a close thing, though. Give it a few more years and I think I could be mistaken for the twins’ younger brother.”

Rambeau shook her head in disbelief, and Bucky smiled. “Anyway, I wanted to say—I’m sorry.”

“You already said that,” she replied. “You know, an hour ago.”

“Yeah, right, yes, I did. But I also wanted to give you this.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the evidence. The piece of shrapnel he’d found and stuck a little pink flag next to: the broken half of Captain Danvers’ dog tag. Rambeau sucked in a breath, and with a shaking hand, took the shard from his fingers.

“I know what it’s like to lose family,” he said, quiet. “My parents, then one of my sisters. And with what I’ve got… I’ll know what it’s like to lose them all. It hurts a whole lot. And I know it’s gotta hurt a lot more when you don’t know what happened to them. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t find that out for you. That I couldn’t find her. That I couldn’t give you closure.”

Rambeau stared at the broken dog tag in her hand, and then dragged her teary gaze towards him. She lurched forward and pulled Bucky into a hard and fast embrace, before ducking back and thanking him.

“If you ever—if you do find out—”

“You’ll be the first to know,” he promised. “And if you learn anything—”

“I’ll call you,” she said, nodding. “‘Cause Carol’s not the type to just _leave,_ and she’s not the type to die young, either.”

He fished his wallet from his pocket, and then his card from that, placing it gently on the counter – the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo and _James Barnes,_ followed by his work number.

“No one’s the type to die young, Captain,” he said. “But I agree… I think there are people out there who are too damn stubborn to go when the universe wants ‘em to.”

“Carol’s one of those,” she said.

Bucky smiled. “So’s Steve. Cut from the same cloth, those two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as i found out from 30 minutes of captain marvel viewing this morning, maria rambeau actually lives in louisiana, moving there i ASSUME after 1989. so that's where the farmhouse would be. i, however, do not care. also, any future mentions of captain marvel are also slightly off with the chronology and junk, just go with it please.
> 
> SO! here we are. 1989. HOW ARE WE FEELING. because i am TIRED and i keep making this fic LONGER because i do not know how i want it to END
> 
> anyway ily pls talk to me in the comments i hope youre all good in quarantine, look after yourself, etc.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1989-1994

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess a few people are getting confused about uhhh all the characters and stuff, so this notes section is just gonna list characters and their relations as far as the end of chapter 10, in 1989. I totally get it, its a massive cast, and even I had to make a family tree to keep track. So:
> 
> Bucky Barnes married Evie Barnes (neé Adams) in 1952. They have two children: Sylvia and Charlie, who are twins. Sylvia married Mark Beckett, and had a daughter named Heather (9 years old). They divorced in 1982. As of 1985, Sylvia is dating a man named Ryan Cook, and they have a daughter called Holly (2). Charlie married Marcia and had a son called Jason (11) and a daughter called Julia (6). I did not realise I made both kids have alliterative children's names until it was too late. Bucky has three siblings: Becca, Charlotte and Catherine. Charlotte died in 1985, but as far as I know, all other siblings and their partners/various children (see the family tree, chapter 7) are alive.
> 
> Steve Rogers married Peggy Carter in 1948 (I think) and divorced in 1982. They have two children: Rosie and Rich. I was aware of the alliterative names when I chose them this time. They are four years apart in age. Rosie married Jacob Hall, and had a son named Matthew (7). Rich is unmarried and dating a man named Scott Watson. Steve has a German Shepherd named Gracie. Peggy is now dating Daniel Sousa.
> 
> and that's what you missed on glee

Once back in New York again, Bucky finally faced up to the truth.

He sat Steve down and said, “Peggy’s retiring next year.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yeah. She’s also dating Daniel Sousa, from the SSR?”

Steve deflated. “Oh… Really?”

He slumped back against the cushions on the sofa, blinking and thinking through Bucky’s words. Bucky watched carefully; he’d been meaning to tell him for almost three weeks now and had simply put it off, again and again.

“I guess I just thought…” Steve trailed off.

“You thought she’d come back.”

“Not _now._ Not right away. But someday, maybe,” Steve admitted. In another room, Gracie whined loudly, probably finding her food bowl empty or having rolled her chew toy so far under the dresser again that she couldn’t reach it. Steve’s eyes flickered in the direction of the kitchen. “I know it’s not… not right… it’s been _years,_ you know? But I kinda thought that when she retired, she’d realise how much she misses… me.” It was said like a sigh, like a reluctant truth.

“She does miss you, pal,” Bucky said.

“Not enough to come back.”

“Enough that she knows she’s not good for you,” he corrected. Steve pulled a face. “You know it as well as the rest of us. And she knows it too. She’s getting her second chance, buddy; having the life she shoulda been having with you.”

“But with _Daniel Sousa._ ” Steve said the name like it was venomous.

“You liked Daniel Sousa.”

“He’s fine,” Steve grumbled.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Stop being a baby.”

“I’m not being a baby.”

“You’re a giant six-foot baby.” Steve frowned. Gracie barked from the kitchen. “Go check on your dog before she breaks your new table, you freakishly huge baby.”

Steve got up and Bucky’s gaze trailed after him as he went. He was always watching Steve go. It was as if he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t do anything but.

*

The term, Bucky had learned, was _bisexual._

Upon hearing it, he was flooded with an instant relief. He was not the only one. There was a _word_ for what he felt, and it wasn’t _sick,_ it wasn’t _wrong._ It was _bisexual,_ and that meant he was okay.

*

In 1990, every Rogers family member – including Peggy Carter, an honorary Rogers – made a big change.

In January, as promised, Peggy announced her retirement. She would be replaced by current Deputy Director Robert Keller and would be officially gone by June. Before then, there would likely be a large shift with personnel, with level classifications, and with assignment management, and Bucky had the sudden feeling he wouldn’t have his job anymore. He probably wouldn’t get _fired_ – he was a good worker, a _great_ worker, and a well-known name, but Keller had always made it rather clear that he didn’t think high-level employees should be part-time. That if you wanted an important role in S.H.I.E.L.D., you had to dedicate yourself to it.

Peggy’s retirement memo was sent round on a Monday and it was all anyone talked about for the rest of the day.

“God, can you believe it?” Agent Miller said when she slunk into Bucky’s office at lunch time. They were pretty good friends; Miller had two daughters and a scumbag ex-husband, and they tended to eat lunch together and talk shit about people they didn’t like in the office. “Carter’s _leaving._ I don’t want _Keller_ to run this place. He’s got that annoying teeth thing—you know the thing—”

“I know the thing,” Bucky confirmed. “I already knew though, about Carter and Keller.”

Miller huffed, collapsing into the chair opposite Bucky’s desk. “Of course you did. Why couldn’t _I_ have been lifelong best friends with the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s husband?”

“Ex-husband,” Bucky corrected, because the difference mattered. “And also because I got there first. Get in line.”

Then, in May, Rosie announced to the family that she had applied—and _earned_ —a judgeship. She had worked most of her career as a private defence attorney; following Jacob’s lead a few years in to offer her services pro bono on death row appeals and trials for low income defendants who would otherwise be given a court-appointed lawyer.

“So, you’re gonna be a judge?” Steve asked. Rosie had made the announcement in the middle of dinner in Steve’s yard.

“I’m gonna be a judge,” Rosie confirmed. “Judge Rosemary Hall.”

“Do we have to call you _Your Honour_ now?” Matty asked, eight years old with ketchup around his mouth.

“Yes,” Rosie replied. “Yes, you do.”

Then, in June, Steve quit consulting with S.H.I.E.L.D.

“You’re really going,” Bucky said, once again in his office. Agent Miller was also there, because it was lunchtime, and Steve had happened to be in the office, delivering his letter of resignation. He’d sat in the other chair opposite Bucky’s and then reached across the desk and stole Bucky’s apple.

“Yeah,” Steve said around a mouthful of stolen, thieved apple. _I hope it’s just a tiny bit too sour,_ Bucky thought. “I’m done with this place. Especially now Peggy’s gone for good. I don’t wanna see what Keller had planned for me.”

“You think he had plans for you?” Miller asked, spearing a piece of pasta from her Tupperware box.

Steve nodded. He liked Miller well enough, too. “He’s cornered me a few times since Peg’s announcement. Nothing bad, but I don’t trust the guy as much as I would Peggy. Government lackeys all tend to want to use the Captain America symbol to further their own agendas because they know the public will listen to me.”

“Happened with just about every President since the war,” Bucky agreed.

“It’s an official visit, too,” Steve added, for Miller’s sake. “I get invited to a meeting in the first few months of each President’s term. They say they’d like a good relationship with me, and that they hope we can work well together during their time in office, yada yada yada. They just want me to recruit soldiers and spout Republican propaganda.”

“They always find it disappointing that you’re anti-war,” Bucky commented.

“And a socialist.”

He, like Bucky, had been well-paid for a long time. Plus, with the equal fifty-fifty split of he and Peggy’s joint money, he had quite a lot for himself left over after the divorce. _I really was the trophy husband,_ he’d said, showing Bucky the bank balance after the divorce had been finalised. He spent a lot of his time like Evie, working with the local community, but since art school, he’d taken up painting daily, and had even had a few exhibitions under his pseudonym, Roger Grant.

Then in September, Rich invited Bucky, alone, to dinner at his cheap apartment in the Bronx. He’d sounded nervous over the phone, which put Bucky on edge for the whole week before. It couldn’t be _urgent_ or they wouldn’t be having a quiet dinner—but Bucky could’ve sworn he’d heard the anxiety in Rich’s voice.

So, Bucky drove up on a Thursday evening after work, and Rich opened the door dressed nicely to match Bucky’s work clothes. His apartment reminded Bucky distinctly of his and Steve’s from before the war. The floor creaked and the pipes leaked. There were loud neighbours and the windows were thin, letting all the noise from the street float up into Rich’s home. But he’d clearly worked hard on it, when he wasn’t away for research; he’d filled it with comfortable furniture and artistic prints on the wall. Bucky spotted a few of Steve’s paintings; one a large oil taken straight from a photo Rich had brought back of a cluster of icebergs in the freezing sea.

Bucky remembered moving Rich’s things out here ten years before, even. He remembered the hesitance they’d all felt, leaving him in this wreck—but it looked better than Bucky remembered, and Rich clearly didn’t mind it; it served his purposes for the times he was around, anyway.

Now, Rich looked nervous, opening the door and showing Bucky through to the kitchen-diner with shaky hands, to where a man with brown skin stirred at a pot on the stove and smiled when he saw them.

Rich said, “Uh—um. This is Bucky, my uncle I was telling you about.”

The man wiped his hands on a tea towel and stepped over, reaching out a hand. Bucky shook it.

“Scott Watson,” he said. “It’s an honour to meet you—I’ve spent half my life watching you.”

“Uh—”

“Oh, fuck—no, I meant watching like _learning,_ ” Scott amended with suddenly panicked eyes. “Like, I studied you. Watched your interviews, read about you. It’s—oh, man, I’m making a terrible first impression. I’m a historian. I specialise in World War II and the Howling Commandos—that’s what I mean.”

Bucky stifled his laughter and let his smile stretch. “I’ll admit, you had me for a second there.”

Scott laughed now. “Ah, you know, my mother always said _Never meet your heroes._ ”

“Mothers tend to be right,” Bucky replied.

Scott glanced back at the meal cooking away, and stepped back into the kitchen, Bucky and Rich following along.

“How do you know Rich, anyway?” Bucky asked, glancing over to the rickety table, one leg propped up on a book to make it even. He hated that table on sight. “Do you just track down people who might get you ridiculously close to the Howlies?”

Scott smiled and Rich said, “Oh, uh—no. No, he’s—he and I—um.” He cleared his throat. “Scott is my boyfriend.”

There was a beat. Then Bucky nodded and said, “Alright. Hey, that’s pretty lucky for you, right? You meet the son of _the_ American hero—that’s like hitting gold.”

Scott laughed, and Rich gnawed at his lower lip until Bucky shot him a smile and patted him on the arm.

“Trust me, it wasn’t on purpose,” Scott replied. “We were giving lectures at Columbia on the same day, and he hears about one on Captain America—”

“I gotta see that,” Rich interrupts. “I always sit in on Cap lessons. I like to know how accurate they get it.”

“Apparently the depiction of Captain Rogers as a law-abiding, kid-friendly patriot is a load of horseshit.”

“Kid-friendly?” Bucky asked. “His Ma used to wash his mouth with soap ‘cause of all shit he talked.”

Scott Watson seemed like a nice guy with a good job. He apparently had a far nicer apartment than Rich did – though that wasn’t hard – and only asked near the end of the night for Bucky to sign his old _Captain America and The Howling Commandos_ movie poster. In short, Bucky liked him. He’d still likely do a background check or five, but Rich seemed to like him a lot, and Bucky had always thought Rich to be a very good judge of character.

While they ate, he asked, “You told Steve about this yet?”

Rich shook his head. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him, yet. Or anyone else.”

“‘Course, kid,” Bucky said, smiling warmly. “But I gotta ask you for something in return.”

A flash of worry passed across Rich’s and Scott’s faces in tandem.

Bucky said, “Please let me make you a new table. This thing is a fucking tragedy.” He wobbled the table, gave Rich a pointed look, and the three of them laughed.

*

And life carried on, as life tended to do.

Sylvia announced she was going to have a long engagement with Ryan rather than a marriage, and Holly grew small and slow, the anomaly in the super soldier family. Her orange hair grew out thick and curly, and her green eyes only grew more vivid over time. It was clear from the outset that she wouldn’t be big and tall like her sister and cousins; rather, she was consistently too small for her age and she was wearing glasses by age two – the first in the family in fifty years.

By ’93, Holly was six and animal obsessed, her older sister Heather thirteen and larger than life. She had somehow absorbed every inch of Peggy Carter she’d ever come into contact with and grew popular and exacting. Heather spent energy only where she deemed necessary and had a string of lackeys, both older and younger, idolising her every move. It was Jason, at fifteen, who had a sudden growth spurt, becoming tall and gangly over one summer, with just enough muscle to make the football team, and Julia, at ten, who saw a bra burning at a feminist protest on the news, and upon being declined a bra to burn, instead used the craft safety scissors to cut off her hair in uneven chunks.

In the Rogers family, life was just as loud, with Rosie’s judgeship and her husband getting roped into several high-profile cases. Matty was eleven when Bucky called him _Stevie_ for the first time, stopping himself suddenly and realising that Steve’s grandson was almost a carbon copy of Captain America himself. _Your nose ain’t as big,_ Bucky decided, and Matty flicked through a hundred photos after that, comparing himself to every one.

And by ’93, Rich and Scott were four years strong, and living in Scott’s apartment, and Bucky helped them move because he was still the only one who knew, except from a few close friends and colleagues, and Bucky took the photo of them standing in the doorway of their new, shared home, and Bucky threw out Scott’s table, because he personally preferred the one he made instead.

And then one day, in October, Rich invited Steve along too, to finally see his new place, and at forty years old said, “Dad, this is my partner, Scott,” and the pride was evident, and the joy was evident, and the work Rich had put in to feel comfortable, to feel happy, was evident.

To his credit, Steve took it a lot better than he had at the Grand Canyon, and he greeted Scott warmly, before hugging his son and holding him close, holding him tight.

Bucky shared a smile with Scott and after embraced Rich, too, saying, “I’m proud of you, kid,” because this really was a moment worth waiting for.

They had a big dinner, and Steve shot question after question at Scott, about his family and friends and life. Scott immediately returned the favour, as Bucky knew he was prone to do, about the war and the stories and the prevalent inaccuracies in the reporting of Steve’s life.

“He wants to write the authorised Captain America biography,” Rich informed them, when Scott not-so-sneakily took notes on something Steve said.

“I don’t think I’ve authorised a biography,” Steve mused.

“Not _yet,_ you haven’t,” Scott replied.

Steve grinned and speared a piece of pork from his plate. “Any biographer of mine would have to undergo rigorous checks.”

“Yeah, _that’s_ why you’d want to do checks,” Rich drawled.

Steve snorted. “I did the same checks on Jacob—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky said, patting Steve’s arm. “I already did them years ago.” Rich started laughing as Scott blinked in surprise. “Full background check, had a guy following him around for a few days; he’s clean.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve asked.

“Sure. ‘Cept from a two parking tickets in ’84 and ’87.”

Scott whispered, “ _How does he know that?_ ”

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve said, appreciative. “That’ll save me some time.”

“No problem, buddy.”

Scott stared as Rich’s cutlery clattered against the plate, Rich laughing too much to stop.

*

By 1994, Scott was coming to family dinners and Rich’s smile had returned to a warm welcome; Bucky hadn’t noticed the way he’d held himself tight into his body, had been civil but not soft, until Scott was there sitting beside him, making him laugh and lighting up his whole face by just being in the room.

The babies grew bigger, children turning into teenagers, and the kids grew older, adults of forty years old and counting.

And all the while, Bucky drove to work and came home again; cooked meals and cleaned the dishes after; bought the newspaper; walked Steve’s dog; worked on the garden and in the garage; built tables and fixed the furniture; painted the hall and then the bedroom; drank in the evenings and visited the grandchildren on the weekends; danced in the bedroom with Evie; danced in the living room with Sylvia; danced on the patio with Heather.

He danced because that’s what he knew how to do; all those old-fashioned dances that he’d taken to the halls and impressed girls with were still fresh in his mind, muscle memory that never would quite vanish. There were new dances now, of course; he’d seen them on the TV that summer the kids were obsessed with _The Corny Collins Show_ and the teenagers that danced in dresses and suits. There was new music, too, new ways of playing it. Boom boxes and stereos that were carried down the street through the warm months, sat on the side of basketball courts and blared loudly for the entire neighbourhood to hear.

And despite all the change, everything he had witnessed come and go and metamorphosise, Bucky Barnes still felt young. Impossibly so. He was seventy-seven years old, and yet outwardly, there was nothing at all to show for it.

He left for the night on June first, after dancing with Evie in the living room at three-o-clock in the afternoon and having to stop after a few minutes because her legs hurt. Because she couldn’t stand for very long anymore. Because her hips were going and her legs were shaking and she had developed arthritis in her right wrist. Because Evelyn Barnes was seventy-one years old, and there was everything to show for it.

She still went to get her hair dyed regularly; a deep auburn a few shades away from the brown he’d known his whole life, and her hair was cut at the shoulders, less untamed and free and more curved into a respectable bob. She’d worn make up less since her wrist shook and stiffened, and her hands weren’t as soft as he remembered. Her clothes, even, were no longer the dresses she’d collected reverently throughout their marriage; tight bodices that flared out at the waist, polka dot or floral, bows that sat at her breast bone or at the skirt’s hem. She was changing, ageing, growing, and Bucky couldn’t do that with her.

He wanted to. He wanted to age like her; wanted to curl around her body and feel the same way; see his fingers prune, his hairline recede. Wanted his walk to slow, his hearing to go. He wanted the reality of human life; that regular, steady pace at which everyone slowly turned to ash and dust.

Bucky would have to do this all again. He would live another hundred years, find another wife, have children again maybe and love Steve from afar, all before he ever got to see more than one grey hair every few years.

When would his back start to ache, he wondered? Would it be when he hit a hundred? One-twenty? When would he start considering loafers a respectable shoe to wear around the house? When would he stop being able to carry his grandchildren? His great-grandchildren?

They fought after she sat down, he and Evie. The two of them fought rarely, and less so after she had started growing old and he had stood back and watched it happen. They’d known each other so long, had delegated tasks and chores and knew each other’s interests and pet peeves and intrinsic existences that there was very little to fight about anymore.

Except that Evie was growing and Bucky was not. Except that—

“I’m not embarrassed by you!” Bucky huffed, throwing his hands in the air. “How many times do I have to say that?”

“I didn’t _say_ you were _embarrassed by me_ —”

“Your literal words were—and I quote— _you don’t want to walk down the street with me because you’re ashamed to be with me_ —”

“I _said_ —”

“ _Ashamed_ is a synonym of _embarrassed!_ ” Bucky cried. Evie huffed back in her armchair. “And I’m _not._ I just said I’d go get the groceries by myself—”

“Because you don’t want to be seen walking hand in hand with an old lady,” Evie said.

“ _Because_ you can’t even _make the walk_.”

They fell silent, glaring at each other from across the room. It wasn’t a real fight, not really. It wasn’t the kind that was anything other than the two of them unable to reach each other on the first go; cross the chasm and find understanding.

Bucky broke the silence and crouched down beside her chair. He still loved her, of course he did. They weren’t different people, exactly; it was just that Evie was capable of change, and Bucky was a hundred years slow.

“I think I’m growing old,” Evie said softly. “I’m going to hold you back.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Growing old or holding you back?”

“You’re not holding me back,” Bucky replied.

“So, I am growing old.” He smiled ruefully and she huffed out a laugh. “You should really cut off the dead weight while you still can.”

“Evie.”

She rolled her eyes. “I just want you to have a life, baby,” she said. “I look at you and I just see a man stuck caring for his elderly mother.”

“ _Evie._ ”

She waved a hand and sniffed, before cupping his cheek and brushing her thumb across his cheekbone. “You look just like you did the day I met you.”

“So do you.”

She laughed. “Don’t lie to me, Barnes. But you _do._ If you just shaved this scruff, you’d still be the same army brat you were when we first met. Acting like he was hot shit and dancing all night long. Do you remember the first song we danced to?” He shook his head. “Neither do I. But I remember, that first night, dancing to _Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy._ You know, The Andrew Sisters? Oh, and then some Nat King Cole songs—that band played all night long. Slow dances then fast. Kay Starr, _If I Could Be With You._ We had our first dance to that song at our wedding, too. Do you remember that?”

“I do,” Bucky whispered.

She hummed. Her thumb ran through his stubble, to his lower lip. “You have been the love of my life, Bucky Barnes. But you have so much more life than me to live.”

“Evie.”

“If you knew what was good for you, you’d leave me and start again somewhere else.”

“Leaving you ain’t what’s good for me, Eves.”

She didn’t look like she agreed. “I don’t want you sitting around for the next twenty years, waiting for me to die so you can start living again.”

“I’m not waiting for you to die.”

“But you _are_ waiting to start living.”

They stared at each other and Evie sniffed once more. Bucky said, “I’m gonna love you all the way to the end, Evie. I’ve got a long time left to live, I can spare a few years to spend with you in retirement. I don’t wanna miss a thing with you.”

And yet when she went to bed after dinner, her muscles aching and tired through, Bucky changed clothes and left the house. He didn’t know where he was going exactly, but he knew he wouldn’t find it in his neighbourhood.

It was still light out when he climbed on the bus that would head into the city; to the part of Brooklyn that overlooked the water and Manhattan. He wasn’t sure why he did it, at first, and stopped off in a bar to nurse a pint and think over the next twenty years of his life.

He didn’t care so much what people thought when they saw them walk down the street together; in fact, many knew him by appearance alone, could make the jump to the non-ageing super soldier and his regular mortal wife. The ones that couldn’t could fuck off for all he cared—no, it wasn’t that. It was more the way Evie grew tired early, the way she couldn’t stand for long or look after the house much anymore. It was how she had slowed down, how the doctor predicted she would slow further.

She was ageing. He was not.

Bucky assumed this was similar to how children felt at the sight of their parents growing old; they would pay out for a nursing home or move closer, to help them reach the top cabinets or be there when they fell. _Hell,_ Evie _falling_ was now a worry that plagued him. When he thought back to his own parents, their declines had been sudden. One day they were middle-aged and self-sufficient, and the next Pops had that cough and Ma fell down the stairs. They were gone fast after that; a few years of insisting they were fine, each child taking a day to visit and help out, and then they were dead and buried, Ma’s hair barely turning white at all.

Bucky drank until it was dark outside, until the bar became packed with people, and then he left and wandered Brooklyn until he came across it.

Dance halls were a thing of the past and nightclubs had replaced them. It was a different kind of dancing, a different kind of drinking. Twenty-year-olds no longer ordered a scotch and stood by the bar, watching people dance in their Sunday best, the lights bright and the band bouncing. Rather, there were shots in the dark; no suits and ties, no live music playing over the crowd.

Bucky went inside, because he looked like he could’ve been thirty-five at most, because he was secretly seventy-seven, because his wife was seventy-one and unable to dance with him anymore.

He paid on the door and passed through the crowd, scanning the club like he would any other unfamiliar building. Checking for exits was ingrained in that way.

Everything was lit with neon; it all had a purple glow to it: the people, the bar, the drinks. He started towards the bar and watched from there, the music poppy and loud. He was thankful it wasn’t the seventies, all of a sudden. He’d hated disco. Hated the bell bottoms and flat open collars of shirts. Now, girls wore short dresses, they wore crop tops and tiny shorts, their hair was peroxide blonde, and their eye makeup heavy. They had bows in their hair, plaid skirts, low-hanging tops. The boys, too, wore baggy clothes and low-riding jeans. Their hair was long in a way that Bucky would’ve detested wearing in his youth. They were grungy, almost. They were young.

It was a woman in a silver dress and chunky black heels that asked him to dance. She giggled, tipsy, and fell into his side at the bar. She ordered them shots and then his manners won out and he paid. They swung their heads back. His tongue burned. It wasn’t enough to get him drunk.

“Come on! Dance with me!” she shouted over the music, tangling her fingers with his. If she saw his wedding ring, she didn’t care. She pulled him out into the throng of people.

Even though the dances were new, they weren’t hard. Bucky followed along, easily picking them up and following the girl’s lead. She looked twenty at most. She looked so young that he almost reconsidered whether he _felt_ young.

The dances matched songs: MC Hammer’s _Hammer Time_ and Madonna’s _Vogue._ The dances that didn’t were about swaying, moving, grinding. They were cramped between people all doing the same thing. They involved the girl tangling her hand in his and him spinning her until she drew close.

He had fun and he also didn’t.

He loved dancing and he also didn’t.

He wanted to be at the club and he also didn’t.

Because his wife was at home and she was probably asleep and tomorrow was a Saturday, and on Saturdays she liked to visit the shops or the market or the fairs that came through town throughout the summer, and Bucky wanted to do those things with her, even if they were slow and sometimes boring, and more often than not meant they would have to sit down every thirty minutes on a park bench and watch the birds for another twenty until Evie could keep going again.

Bucky wanted to do those things with her because he loved her.

He wanted to spend time with her because it was _her._

He wanted to go dancing, but after fifty years of Evie being his dance partner, twirling another girl felt wrong. It felt tainted. It felt ridiculous. Why would he come to a place like this when he had _Evie_ at home?

He didn’t feel free or untethered or reborn; he felt old. He felt like he was a hundred years older than these kids dancing in slips of clothing to loud, thumping music.

When the girl came in close, her hands sliding across his arms and to his waist, tugging herself in and tilting her head up towards him, Bucky knew he could kiss her. He also knew he didn’t want to.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve got to head out now.”

He left the club and got back on the bus heading away from the city. He walked the way home, past the community centre Evie built up from nothing, past the row of local shops they’d likely visit tomorrow, and past Steve’s house, the landing light still on in the upstairs window.

He clicked the door quietly shut in his own house and locked it behind him. He climbed the stairs, lined with family photos and school portraits of a life well spent. He slipped into the darkness of their bedroom, one they’d soon need to move downstairs when Evie could no longer handle the steps.

Bucky toed off his shoes and peeled off his clothes. He climbed into bed as softly as he could, stretching an arm around Evie’s waist and pressing his nose into her shoulder. She still smelt exactly as she always had. She’d never stopped wearing the same brand of perfume the entire time he’d known her.

Evie shifted, mumbled, “Buck?”

“Shh,” Bucky whispered, pressing a kiss against her shoulder. “Go to sleep, baby.”

She hummed. “Love you, Bucky.”

He smiled. “Love you too, Eve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i named that one dance show the corny collins show after the one in hairspray i couldn't be bothered to come up with a tv show name,, this fic is 71 thousand words and counting i could've written a whole ass novel in this time i get to take shortcuts lmao
> 
> also like i think the second half of this chapter is probably the worst written part of this entire fic but i just couldn't get it right so i gave up to write something better in the next chapter. i think my point about bucky's insecurity about his wife ageing but deciding to love her all the same until the end came across so it's chill
> 
> i promise stucky will happen. please don't lose interest or patience. it will happen and it won't be one of those fics where they finally get together, have a 500 word sex scene and then the fic ends. there's still things to happen even after they finally admit their feelings for each other please keep holding out lmao


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1995

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, again, i did mess up some details. maria rambeau lives in lousiana in the film but i only found that out after writing her into nevada. so. she lives in nevada now. also the chronology is not the same as the movie, but its okay, because it's an au and nothing matters anyway.

“Barnes? Is this James Barnes?”

“Speaking.”

“It’s Maria Rambeau. We met in Nevada? When Carol disappeared?”

“Of course, yes. Captain Rambeau. Is everything alright?”

“She’s back.”

“What?”

“She’s—Carol’s back. Can you get here? Soon?”

*

Steve hadn’t been on a S.H.I.E.L.D. aircraft in a while and it showed. He peered at everything, from the pilot to the hidden under-seat handguns. Bucky hadn’t planned on bringing Steve with him, but they’d been in the same room when he’d answered the phone, and then it was a no-brainer. He’d covered the story of Captain Danvers in the time it took to get through to S.H.I.E.L.D. H.Q. and book a flight, and by that point, Steve’s eyes were alight with interest, with the prospect of action.

Semi-retirement was boring for them both, it seemed.

So Steve came along, and the plane landed on the NASA USAF Facility strip, just like it had six years before. Only this time, the place was crawling with agents that didn’t seem happy to see him. He had seniority over most of them, but word on the street was that Keller had been through, and a “crazy alien chick” dressed for laser tag had escaped the Facility, having arrived with Agent Fury.

There was a lot to unravel, and Maria hadn’t said much on the phone. Just that he needed to get there, that they needed help.

He led Steve through the base, eyeing the agents that stood outside the file room when he went in, and then the gap that remained where he’d left the files on the crash. Bucky tapped his fingers on the space.

“What’s supposed to be there?”

“Lawson’s batshit schematics,” Bucky murmured. “Either the _alien chick’s_ got it, or S.H.I.E.L.D. does.”

“You want them?”

“I wrote them,” Bucky replied. “I feel entitled.”

He looked down at the sound of a cat’s meow and blinked to see the same orange cat he’d met five years before. Bucky crouched down to scratch behind his ear.

“Hey, Goose,” he said. Goose looked no different to how he had before and he purred into Bucky’s hand. “You know where the files are?” He hadn’t meant the words when he said them, but Goose promptly turned and walked to the end of the aisle, before looking back at him.

Bucky shrugged and followed.

“You’re following a cat,” Steve said.

“We’d have to go this way, anyway,” Bucky replied. “It’s just more interesting if there’s a cat, too.”

Goose walked with them the whole way to the senior agent of the Facility’s office, and then sat outside as Bucky entered and sequestered the files.

“You can’t take them,” the agent insisted.

“Remind me,” Bucky said, flicking through the box to check it was all there. It was a mess, out of order, but everything seemed present. “Who’s got the authority in this situation?”

“This is _my_ base.”

He hummed, reached over, and flicked the badge at the agent’s breast pocket. “Level six. Sorry, agent. I’m a level eight and this is my case. I’ll return the files when I’m done. Have a nice day, now.”

“I’ll call Keller!” the agent yelled as he left, the box under his arm.

“Please do!” Bucky called back. “I haven’t seen him since brunch last week!”

Steve snorted and followed him down the hall. “Is this what you’re like at work now?”

Bucky shrugged. “I’m practically _eighty._ I don’t have time for bureaucracy.” Not since Keller had been made Director, anyway. Bucky had been right about his job’s lack of stability; Keller didn’t want top agents who worked three days a week – he wanted people who’d dedicate their lives to the cause. Bucky was the poster boy for dedicating a whole life though, considering how long he’d been in the agency, and over the past few years, had slowly built back up the hours, the days he spent in the office, and also his relationship with the new Director. It didn’t pass him by that his station was not just earned but given by a close-knit friendship with Peggy Carter.

So by the time Keller was Director, they were friends. They got brunch sometimes, watched baseball more often. Keller had two kids at seven and twelve and they had playdates with Bucky’s grandkids and even went to the same schools.

He hadn’t called him yet since Rambeau phoned, but he knew he’d have to. Keller had spent just as much time on the scene of the crash as he had.

Bucky took one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Audis sitting on the base, and as he opened the front door, Goose jumped up onto the seat and into the back. Bucky met Steve’s eye.

“I’m not going to make him leave,” he said. “I’ve always wanted a cat.”

“Ain’t Evie allergic?” Steve asked.

“Sure. Doesn’t mean the kitty can’t come for a ride.” Bucky climbed into the car and Steve followed. Bucky said, “Buckle up,” over his shoulder, and Goose paid him no attention.

They headed for the Rambeau farmhouse. As they went, Steve pored over the box, pulling out the notebooks and blueprints for Light Speed Engines and Tesseract technology. Steve had already given up S.H.I.E.L.D. by the time Danvers had gone missing, and Bucky hadn’t been able to tell him much. This—Steve in the car with the files—was probably a massive breach of protocol. But the panic in Rambeau’s voice when she begged him to get to Nevada had made him want backup, and Bucky wasn’t bringing Steve in without letting him know what he was getting into.

“So, let me get this clear,” Steve said as they drove through a small, dead town. “S.H.I.E.L.D. spends a few decades fucking around with the Tesseract after they found it in the water.”

“Yep.”

“And this lady, Lawson, figures out how to use the Tesseract for—what—unlimited energy?”

“Think so.”

“But then the ship crashes on an impromptu, unauthorised test flight, Lawson dies, the pilot ends up missing—and now she’s _back_. After _five years._ ”

“Six, actually.”

Bucky glanced over as Steve stared at a photo from the file. Captain Carol Danvers, climbing into her plane, the word _AVENGER_ written on the side in white paint. She looked happy, content, dressed in a green jumpsuit, her hair tied back. Bucky’s eyes dragged to Steve, to his profile; head tipped forward, eyes intense on the paper. Bucky knew the line of his nose, of his jaw, the way he rolled his lower lip and pressed his teeth into it while he read. He knew Steve’s eyebrows, Steve’s mouth; even when his hair changed parting or he started pushing it back or cutting it short, Bucky still knew it all automatically.

He turned away. He didn’t let himself have those moments anymore.

He hadn’t for a long time.

*

At Rambeau’s, there was a spaceship.

“What the fuck?” Steve asked.

“Took the words right outta my mouth, buddy.”

Bucky parked the Audi and stepped out, warily looking from the spaceship, to the Camaro under the awning, just like he remembered. Why the fuck was there a _spaceship?_ Goose jumped out and started up towards the porch ahead of him. Bucky shook his head and knocked.

“What am I getting myself into?” he asked Steve, who followed behind with the files.

“If there’s aliens, I’m going home,” Steve warned in response. “I can’t be dealing with aliens.”

Bucky scoffed. He was about to say _there’s not gonna be aliens,_ but the spaceship seemed to beg to differ.

The door cracked open an inch, a chain across the gap. Maria Rambeau’s face peered through, eyes wary. They then widened, and she called into the house, “It’s Barnes! It’s the man I was telling you about.”

“You gotta check for _sure,_ ” a woman’s voice replied. “They could look like anyone.”

Bucky shared a glance with Steve, and looked back in time for Rambeau to say, “Is that Captain America?”

Bucky said, “Sure is. You mind that I brought him along?”

Rambeau shook her head. “I need to ask you a question before I let you in. To check that you’re—you.”

“Uh?”

“What did you give me? Before you left Nevada last time?”

Bucky blinked. That had been so long ago. He said, “Well, technically I stole it for you. It was Danver’s dog tag—or what was left of it, anyway.”

Rambeau’s face flashed with a smile and she nodded back at whoever was inside the house. Words were shared that Bucky didn’t catch and then Rambeau said, “And the other one. Captain America. I need you to tell us something from a long time ago that only Barnes here can verify.”

“What?” Steve asked.

“We have to check that you’re you. You could’ve been switched.”

“I’ve been with him the whole time,” Bucky said, trying not to dwell on the _switching._ “He’s him.”

“Just say something that only Barnes would know. I trust that he’s him. So he’s gotta verify—none of the rest of us have met him.”

“Alright, alright,” Steve said, shaking his head and stepping onto the porch from the steps. “Uh. Something only Buck could verify.”

Bucky panicked for a moment, jaw tight. His first thought went back to the Grand Canyon, to the kiss they’d never told a soul about. To the way they’d sat at the fire and Bucky had pressed his lips against Steve’s and— _No,_ he told himself. _You don’t get to think about that anymore._ Not since wedging the feelings away. Not since promising Evie to love her until the end. Not since promising Steve that he wouldn’t ever hurt her.

Steve snapped his fingers. “When the twins were like, I don’t know, ten months old? I dropped one of them. Charlie. It was a total accident and he screamed for like an hour, but he was fine. No broken bones, barely even a bruise. I felt _awful_ though, and made Bucky swear to never tell Evie or Peggy or anyone that I’d dropped one of his kids.”

Bucky scoffed. “I remember that. Babies are resilient, you know.”

“Babies are _tiny_ and you could kill one just by holding it,” Steve replied. “That was the most terrifying moment of my life.”

“You’ve been stabbed in the neck.”

“Still.”

Bucky shrugged and looked at Rambeau. “He’s telling the truth. He dropped my ten-month-old baby.” Bucky hadn’t thought about that in thirty years, and he certainly never told a soul. Thinking back on it now, Charlie had probably been fine because of the serum; because his body had said _No, you’re okay,_ and patched up even the bruises before they could get a good look at him.

Rambeau seemed satisfied and the door shut before opening again, the chain lock gone. She opened the door wide, gesturing for them to come in.

The moment he stepped over the threshold he saw Carol Danvers.

Bucky stopped.

He’d known she’d be here, but—she looked exactly the same as her photo. She looked unhurt. She looked tired. She looked like there was so much more to do than just confirm their identities.

“Goose!” Danvers cried suddenly, kneeling down as the orange tabby cat padded through the doorway and into the house. “You brought Goose with you?”

Bucky shrugged. “More like Goose stowed away.”

“Sergeant Barnes, sir,” a voice said, and Bucky tore his gaze from Danvers and looked at the agent standing beside him. Dark skin, a brown jacket, Agent Nick Fury was just as Bucky remembered him from when he was on Bucky’s team a few years prior. He hadn’t seen him in a while, not since writing the recommendation letter that helped Fury secure his new position.

“Fury,” Bucky said, shaking his outstretched hand. Danvers, in his periphery, seemed to relax a little. “It’s good to see you. How’s the new office?”

“Mm, missing it right now, that’s for sure. Cap, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Fury shook Steve’s hand next.

“And you, Agent Fury. Buck told me about you on the way here. How’d you get caught up in this?”

“Got a report of a lady dressed in a rubber suit breaking into a Blockbuster,” Fury replied. “Turned out to be a missing pilot from a top-secret research group.”

“P.E.G.A.S.U.S.,” Bucky said.

“That’s the one.”

Rambeau shut the door behind them, then nodded them through to the kitchen. “How about I get us all some coffee and we figure out what to do?”

“What to do?” Bucky asked, following her down the hall. “I’m more interested in where Danvers has been for six years, and why there wasn’t even a _trace_ of her left on that island.”

“You led the investigation?” Danvers asked.

“Sure did.” He caught the way her eyes lingered on the files in Steve’s hands when he placed them on the counter. When Steve moved away from them, she stepped over, prying off the box lid and paging through the contents. Goose jumped up to sit on the counter beside her.

“Do you know why all this is classified? It’s all blacked out, ‘cept from Maria’s statement.”

“Her testimony was the only non-incriminating thing,” Bucky replied. “I classified the rest of it myself.”

Danvers looked over, gaze sharp. Even Fury seemed interested in that.

“Why?” she asked.

“It’s what we decided to do. Cover up the whole incident, file it away, pretend it didn’t happen.” He shrugged and took a seat at the small table by the window in the kitchen. Steve leaned against the cupboards opposite while Rambeau filled a few mugs with coffee.

“You covered me up?” Danvers asked.

“I covered up the Tesseract technology,” he corrected. “I _searched_ for you. Followed every lead I had – of which there were very few – even had a team scouring the water for _days_ trying to find your body or clothes or something.”

“I wasn’t in the water.”

“Clearly,” Bucky replied. “Anyway, the agency needed the Tesseract to stay secret, so I classified the file and left it to rot. I kept tabs on Nevada, on Joseph and Steven—”

“Who?” Danvers asked. Bucky blinked.

“Your father? And brother?” She looked at him blankly. “Alright, then. Well, I did. Just in case you showed up out there. And I got all the reports on the Facility, in case you came back up. You vanished into thin air, Danvers. So I did what I had to, classified everything, shut down Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S. and made sure it was untraceable. The Light Speed Engine was destroyed and the schematics practically unreadable anyway. The Tesseract vanished, though, before the crash even happened, so we tried to get that back, failed.” Bucky shrugged. “You’re a cold case. Where’d you go, anyway?”

Danvers sat down at the seat opposite him, suddenly heavy, taking it all in. “Space.”

Steve sighed. “For God’s sake.”

“Maybe this would be a good time to introduce myself,” a new voice said, as someone stepped into the kitchen from the dining room. Immediately, everyone jumped to their feet.

Steve swore and complained, “I _knew_ it would be aliens eventually,” as they all stared at the intruder. He had green skin and black eyes and weird, pointed ears, and Bucky hated this new reality.

The alien said, “Alright, alright. Let’s not fight. My name is Talos. I just want to talk,” and Bucky replied: “You have got to be shitting me.”

*

The next twenty-four hours were… highly classified. So much so that afterwards, Bucky got reprimanded by Director Keller himself for bringing a civilian, _Steve_ , into that bullshittery.

“He’s a super soldier,” Bucky reminded him. “He’s seen worse.”

“Than _aliens?!”_ Keller cried. “I got _body switched!_ A green alien man knocked me over the head and _pretended to be me!_ The ramifications of confirmed alien existence, let alone alien existence _within S.H.I.E.L.D._ are astounding!”

Bucky said, “Why don’t you drink some of that herbal tea I brought you? Calm down a little.”

Keller slumped into his seat behind his desk. He reached forward, took the mug Bucky had made for him, and took a long sip of the tea. Bucky took a sip of his coffee.

“Tell me it again,” Keller said. “From the top. We leave no loose threads on this one. I don’t want a paper trail; I don’t want even the _possibility_ of other government entities looking into this.”

“Did you tell the President?” Bucky asked.

“ _Did I tell the President?”_ Keller mocked. “No, I didn’t tell the President! You think Clinton’s gonna be President for much longer? You think I want someone who’s gonna be a _civilian_ in a few years to have this kind of knowledge?”

“He could win a second term,” Bucky said, mild.

“Tell me the story, Barnes,” Keller moaned. “Tell me and then never take a civilian into a S.H.I.E.L.D. investigation again.”

“Mm, Steve’s a little more than a civilian,” Bucky said, but he told the story again anyway.

First the black box in Maria Rambeau’s house; the one they couldn’t find for the life of them, that Talos the Skrull had hidden away, and then an explanation of what he understood about the Skrull, themselves.

“They’re shapeshifting aliens who have been slaughtered and oppressed by the Kree because they wouldn’t submit to their rule. They’re refugees. The Kree are the bad guys, I think; they’re the ones that sent the giant spaceships to destroy Earth.” Keller sighed like he was going to have a mental break. The fact that Bucky had yet to have a devastating breakdown over this was impressive; he watched Keller’s from the outside.

Captain Carol Danvers, Carol, as she insisted he call her, had been changed by the Tesseract. When the Asis aircraft crashed, a select group of Kree soldiers had attacked, and in retaliation, Carol had destroyed the Light Speed Engine, knowing it to be what they were looking for. Wendy Lawson, by the way, was a fucking alien.

Keller sighed deeply and pressed his forehead against the cool wood of his desk.

“Carol was taken by the Kree, had her memory wiped, and retrained as one of their soldiers. She ended up on Earth after being kidnapped by a group of Skrull, looking for the co-ordinates of a group of refugees that were hiding in our atmosphere.”

Carol had caused a few scenes in Blockbusters, on trains, in a bar, and then at the NASA USAF Facility before getting to Maria’s. From there, they all climbed on the spaceship and found the hidden Skrull base. It had been surreal; climbing on a spaceship, looking at Steve buckled into the seat beside him, and seeing his own confusion and fear and wonder mirrored in his eyes.

The Skrull on the satellite laboratory base orbiting Earth were just like them, too; men and women and children who loved one another, who were scared and just trying to survive. They had toys, ancient pinball machines, books in English hidden in various alcoves. Bucky had crouched carefully beside a small alien, the size of a toddler, who had stared at him with wide, void-like eyes. They’d pressed their hand against his cheek, a ratty old cloth rabbit in their grip, and giggled.

“There was a Bucky Bear,” he said like an afterthought. “This one kid had a _Bucky Bear._ The Howling Commandos are a universal thing, Keller. I’m serious, you should contact Hollywood, let them know other planets might be interested in another Captain America movie.”

Keller lifted his head to send Bucky a withering glare. Bucky gestured to the herbal tea and Keller took another sip. Bucky thought he should’ve brought some sage, too. Or a scented candle.

While they were in the lab, Talos had said, “There’s the core,” and Steve had replied, “The Tesseract.”

“You know what that is?” Carol asked, stepping towards it.

“All too well,” Steve replied. “Hydra used it to disintegrate people in the war. Made weapons with it unlike anything we’d ever seen before.”

Bucky remembered the blue glow, the stench of burning, the scattered ash of bodies.

Carol reached for it—

“Ah, I wouldn’t do that,” Steve said, grabbing her arm. “It’ll kill you just to touch it.”

She eyed him, then looked pointedly at her wrist.

“When Red Skull held it, the universe opened up like a wormhole and he vanished,” Steve said. “You really shouldn’t—”

Bucky watched as Carol’s gaze softened for just a moment. “Trust me, Captain,” she said. “The Tesseract and I are made the same.” They met each other’s gaze and Steve lowered his arm. When Carol took hold of the Tesseract, she didn’t even wince. Instead, it simply glowed in her grasp and she marvelled at it, before hiding it away in a retro lunchbox she found on a desk.

It was then that the Kree attacked.

The fight that ensued was destructive, volatile. The Kree wanted the Tesseract, wanted Carol on their side, wanted the Skrulls dead. So, they ran, they fought, they hid in corridors and let the Kree pass before slipping into different laboratories. Fury and Maria and Goose, who had come along for the ride for _some reason,_ were taken, and in a moment of quiet in a lab, Bucky said, “I’ll get them back, you two deal with the Kree.”

Carol raised her eyebrows, looking at Steve. “I know he’s big,” she said, “but are you sure he can handle it?”

Steve smiled. “I can handle it, ma’am. But all this shit is your realm—tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

Carol eyed him before nodding and looking to Bucky. “And you’ll be okay going after Fury?”

Bucky grinned. “Trust me, Captain,” he said, and Steve ducked his head, shaking it. “Steve and I are made the same. We’ll meet back in the docking bay and get the hell out of here.”

“So then you got Fury out,” Keller said, massaging his temples, “and they took down the Kree soldiers.”

“All accept their leader. Yon-Rogg or something, and that one evil alien girl. Carol dealt with him when we got back to Earth, and Maria got into it with the woman like she was in _Top Gun,_ or something. I got to Fury and Maria just in time for the action, though; Talos was there, too. We got the Skrulls out, piled them into the ship—”

“And where is the Tesseract in all of this? Carol has it?”

“Most of the time,” Bucky said. “There was this moment where—uh. She lured the Kree with the lunchbox? But in reality the cat ate it.”

Keller blinked. It seemed Bucky had not told this part of the story before.

“The _cat_ … _ate it?_ ”

He hummed. “It’s not _really_ a cat. It’s some kinda alien, I don’t know. Ask Carol. Or Fury; Goose is his cat, now.” Bucky tilted his head to the side. “Did I technically steal a cat? Is that a crime?”

Keller sighed, full-body. “Cat-theft _is_ a crime, Barnes.”

“But it was kind of Carol’s cat, too, and she said Fury could keep him. And he’s not _really_ a cat. So.”

“Barnes. Get to the point.”

Bucky shrugged. “The cat ate the Tesseract then yacked it back up last week on Fury’s desk.”

Keller stared at him.

Bucky continued, “So Steve and Carol dealt with the Kree soldiers…”

Bucky had caught the end of it, hustling the Skrull refugees into their ship and seeing Carol and Steve sprint towards them, laser blasts flying across the docking bay. Apparently, around the same time the power had gone out, Carol had been taken and tortured and unlocked some incredible glowing eyes and hair and yellow energy that pulsed around her.

When they made it into the ship, Maria had started it hurtling towards the opening bay doors. Behind them, a small pod lit up, a figure inside starting after them.

“I’ll buy you some time,” Carol said. She held out her fist towards Steve. “Captain.”

“Captain.” Steve knocked his knuckles against her, and she leapt out of the spacecraft, glowing and vibrant and electric.

“Then Maria out-piloted that alien chick,” Bucky said, “then the Kree launched an interplanetary assault on Earth, which Carol single-handedly ended, and then she also kicked her own mentor’s ass and sent him back to the Kree with a message about not coming near Earth.”

Keller’s herbal tea was gone. He still looked stressed.

“And Danvers is not here anymore.”

“Correct. The Skrull are being wiped out across the galaxy; she’s gone to help them and stop the Kree’s rule.”

“So to conclude?”

“Captain Danvers remains M.I.A., the Tesseract is back in S.H.I.E.L.D. hands, Fury lost his eye, there’s an alien cat on the premises, though Fury has sworn everyone involved to complete secrecy so long as no one goes near it or endangers it in any way, and I went to space.”

Keller rubbed his hands over his face. “God, Barnes. Why does all the batshit stuff happen to you?”

He shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“What do you think Carter would do in this situation?”

Bucky didn’t have to think. “Burn the evidence, swear everyone to secrecy, deny all knowledge of the situation.”

“And Rambeau isn’t going to talk?”

He shook his head. “She has no reason to. Carol’s safe, healthy, and she’s got a daughter to look after, anyway.”

Keller nodded. “Classify everything. Get rid of all the evidence. Make sure Rogers doesn’t speak a word of this.”

“No problem.”

“He really did okay even with that shoulder?”

Bucky shrugged. “Barely even slowed him down,” he replied. “He didn’t even notice it until we were back on solid ground.”

The two of them looked at each other for a moment, before Keller whispered, “The _cat_ ate the Tesseract?”

Bucky smiled, saying, “I think it’s technically called a Flerken. I heard tentacles come out of its mouth.”

Keller stared at him. “Get out of my office.”

*

Once on solid ground, the Earth saved and everyone alive, they took a moment to breathe. Fury’s eye was killing after the cat scratch, but it hadn’t blinded yet, and a Skrull medic was taking a look at him on the porch of the Rambeau farmhouse.

Evening was on its way, the sky lit pink in sunset.

Monica had run outside as soon as the ship landed, ten years old, her hair a mass of curls and her face lit with a beaming smile. Bucky and Steve stood across the field, watching her reunite with her mother; Maria swinging her up in the air before she leapt into Carol’s arms, too.

They were a family. Bucky knew the kind.

Steve said, quiet, “I missed this.”

“Hm? I don’t think we’ve gone to space before.”

Steve laughed. “I mean… working beside you. Like we used to. Europe… the ops team. I missed knowing you’d have my six.”

“I miss it too, buddy… I don’t miss the debilitating trauma in the aftermath, but I miss this, too. I miss you.”

Steve’s smile was rueful, and he tipped his head back to look at the clouds, like cotton candy from Coney Island. “I know what you mean.”

They lived around the corner from each other, saw each other daily, and yet… somewhere along the line, they had separated, just a little. They’d married other people, had children, grown up and apart. Bucky thought, honestly, that the distance stemmed from the Grand Canyon, despite how they brought themselves back together by the end of the trip. The knowledge of Bucky’s feelings had pushed them to an arm’s length.

“Do you think they’re like us?” Steve asked, nodding to Carol and Maria. “Best friends raising kids together?”

Bucky smiled, watching the three laugh and hug. “No,” he said, remembering the photos on the wall, different in just the smallest of ways from the ones at Bucky’s house. He thought of Maria’s tears, of the way she looked at Carol now she was back. “I think they’re a little different.” Across the field, Carol pulled Maria into her grasp, one hand tangled in her hair. Monica cried _Eww!_ when they kissed, covering her eyes with her hands until the three of them dissolved into glorious laughter.

Steve didn’t say a word, just watched, expression soft, and Bucky placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once.

By the time the sky grew dark, Carol was ready to leave, her brown aviator jacket on her back, her red and blue and golden suit looking less like a laser tag outfit and more like the uniform of a superhero. It reminded them all a lot of the old Captain America get-up, and over dinner, they’d trawled through Monica’s comic books, showing Carol what kind of Captain Steve had been. They’d eaten dinner together, with Talos’ family and Fury too, all crowded around the dinner table and laughing, pretending they hadn’t all nearly died a hundred times, pretending the world hadn’t almost ended a few hours before.

Then they were out on the grass, the Skrull returning to the base in orbit to leave the solar system, and Carol stared up at the stars like she knew they held her destiny. Bucky watched Steve say goodbye, and then tore his gaze away.

“Thank you for your help,” Carol said, shaking Bucky’s hand.

“Thank _you_ for saving Earth.”

“You’ll cover me up again, won’t you?” she asked, but she didn’t sound as annoyed as she had last time.

Bucky nodded. “Someone in charge will say the world isn’t ready to know about alien life, and we’ll pretend you’re as missing as you’ve ever been.”

“Black it all out?”

“No one will know a thing.”

She nodded and bumped fists with Steve. “Captain,” she said.

“Captain,” he replied.

Then she was saying goodbye to Fury, to Maria and Monica. She was a shooting star, after that; a shooting star in reverse, bursting from the ground and soaring out into the night sky, a blaze of golden yellow streaming after her.

They watched until she vanished into the universe, then they said their goodbyes to the rest. Fury would get a ride back with Bucky and Steve, and Maria and Monica would stay at their home, like they always had, building cars and planes and flying them when they could.

“If you ever need anything,” Bucky said, shaking Maria’s hand.

She smiled. “Right back at you, city boy.” Maria pulled him into a hug and he returned it, before bumping fists with Monica and heading off towards the car.

“So, aliens,” Steve said, as they drew close to the Audi Bucky had commandeered. Fury clearly tried for the passenger seat and Steve cut him off, sending him a raised eyebrow.

“Aliens,” Bucky replied.

Fury rolled his eyes and moved to get in the back. Goose, the cat, the almost cat, the not really cat, jumped in behind.

“I’ve invented a new road trip game about them,” Steve said. Bucky looked at him over the roof of the car. He missed him; missed the feeling of fighting by his side, the adrenaline rushing through his veins and knowing that Steve was right there beside him, in the thick of it. He also knew he’d had these feelings before and he’d ended up screaming through the night for four years, in a unit that fed the rush and the need to fight, but also fed the monsters he’d starved. Maybe it was different now; he’d been in therapy for years, had faced each beast and night terror and broke them down to their bare essentials. He’d fought aliens today and he didn’t feel on edge; he just felt… he just missed Steve. Just missed _this._

“What is it?” Bucky asked, and sighed in the feeling of watching Steve’s mouth curl into a smile.

“It’s called Guess Which Colleague Is An Alien In Disguise.”

Bucky scoffed and rolled his eyes, climbing in the driver’s side.

Steve said, “I’ll start: Agent Miller. She always puts _way_ too much ranch on her salads and that’s _got_ to be the doing of an alien, unaccustomed to human life.”

Fury replied, “Am I gonna have to deal with this the whole way back to New York?”

“Absolutely,” Bucky said. “I once saw Agent Miller wear her t-shirt inside out.”

Steve gasped. “Only an alien wouldn’t know which way to wear clothes.”

Fury groaned. “Goose, would you mind scratching up my ears? I’d like to go deaf, please.”

Bucky and Steve laughed and started the journey back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please talk to me in the comments. i'm currently writing chapter 16 and STRUGGLING because it's a hard chapter to write,,, please tell me things lmao ily


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1995-2000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay can finALLY confirm WITH CONFIDENCE that this fic will end in stucky because like,,,,, i've finally fucking written it. i'm a few chapters ahead of what you're seeing, but like, it's coming. i promise. it's COMING. (eventually. we're still slow burning sorry lmao)

Bucky spent New Year’s Eve at Evie’s bedside, watching the heart monitor steadily beep, heartbeat after heartbeat. He’d grown accustomed to watching that line, the way it rose and fell, sharp and jarring, every second. He’d watched it for hours at a time, waiting for it to falter, waiting for it to fail; for the moment the beep would come too late, or the line wouldn’t go up when it was meant to.

It was December thirty-first, 1999.

Bucky was eighty-two years old. He could pass for thirty, if he shaved. Normally, he might look a little closer to forty.

His wife of forty-eight years, Evelyn Isabelle Barnes, had collapsed three days before, on the twenty-eighth, and briefly stopped breathing. Bucky had pumped on her chest and forced air back into her lungs until the paramedics arrived, and soon after, he’d been told that he was only staving off the inevitable. His seventy-seven-year-old wife had coronary artery disease, which had caused a serious heart attack; the one that had made her collapse in the middle of the park near their house, onto the icy concrete that broke her hip.

The doctors thought she’d had less severe heart attacks already and had simply waved them away as indigestion, or the pains related to growing old.

She was on her way out.

There was a whole myriad of machines connected to her, monitoring her or helping her breathe. She’d been awake a few times and said very little, just stared at him or the kids or the grandchildren with teary eyes but a tight grip.

Evie Barnes was going to die, and Bucky was going to watch it happen.

*

The latter end of the nineties had been both endlessly uplifting and heartbreakingly mournful.

First, it had been Jason’s eighteenth birthday in ’96. He’d packed up his things for college and then vanished into adulthood, his heart wide open to every new experience, including a brief stint with a group of friends who weren’t good for him and yet had lured him along anyway. Charlie had bailed him out after the minor possession charge, and Bucky had sat in the courthouse, watching his son agree to zero time served so long as he completed a rehabilitation course.

He went with Marcy to pack up Jason’s things from his dorm room and wait for Jason to be ready to try again.

At the end of the year, Stevie's dog Gracie, at fifteen years old, fell asleep and didn’t wake up again. They buried her at a pet cemetery and Bucky saw Steve paint nothing but his lovely, loud dog for the next six weeks.

Then it was Catherine and Ricky in a car crash in ’97, followed by Timothy Proctor’s stomach cancer the year after. Both funerals were long and painful, were filled with mourners and black and disgustingly blue skies above. Bucky had wondered, staring up at the midday sun at his littlest sister’s funeral, how someone else could be having the best day of their life, while he experienced his worst.

In ’98, it was Heather’s eighteenth, followed by Julia’s fifteenth and Holly’s ninth. Heather had all her friends over at Sylvia’s brownstone for a sleepover, where they were allowed to drink so long as Sylvia and Ryan were in the house. Julia’s fifteenth was at a roller rink, and Bucky spent the afternoon laughing at the gaggle of girls who came up to ask Steve if _he’s really the real Captain America?_ and stare at him from afar. Holly’s ninth was a princess party with pink balloons and banners, and Bucky was barred entry unless he was wearing at least a tiara.

The same year, Matty got his driver’s license right before his seventeenth, while Rich and Scott bought a house in the suburbs. Scott got tenure and Rich taught advanced classes. They adopted two tortoiseshell cats and had a big housewarming party with all their friends and family and new neighbours.

In August, Rosie announced she was moving to Washington D.C.

“You’re _what?_ ” Sylvia said, dropping her cutlery onto her plate. It was similar to when Rosie had announced her judgeship; they had all joined for a family dinner, crowded around Steve’s dining table.

“Jacob and I are moving to D.C.,” she repeated.

“ _Why?_ ” Bucky asked.

Rosie had trouble keeping her face straight. “I’ve been appointed a position on the Supreme Court.”

The table was silent, and then it was uproarious.

Rosemary Hall, daughter of Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter, was going to be a Supreme Court judge. D.C. allowed that any lawyer practicing for more than five years could work there, too, so Jacob was simply changing employers and doing his best to hand off his open cases to the right people.

“My big sister’s gonna be a _Supreme Court judge,_ ” Rich said. He nudged Scott. “My big sister’s gonna be _famous._ ”

Scott laughed and stage-whispered, “Your Dad’s Captain America.”

Rich waved a hand. “You’re the only Cap groupie I know. Now I get to meet _Rosie groupies._ ”

“I think they’re just called lawyers,” Jacob replied.

It was the next day that Steve told Bucky that Rosie and Jacob were going, but Matty wasn’t.

“He’s seventeen,” Steve said with a shrug when Bucky asked why. “It’s unfair to make him finish school away from home, make him leave all his friends for his last year.”

“Where’s he staying?” Bucky asked.

“With me,” Steve replied. “School’s starting back up next week, but we’ll take a weekend to move over all his stuff and he’ll stay with me until he goes to college or moves to D.C. or whatever he wants to do next.”

So then there was a kid in the house again, but Matty was unlike any of the ones who’d lived in Steve’s house before. He wasn’t quiet like Rich or a high achiever like Rosie. He wasn’t attached at the hip to someone else like the twins, or even a social leader like his older cousin Heather.

Rather, Matty skateboarded and drove far too fast. He secretly smoked out of Steve’s sight and went to parties every weekend. He drank underage and swore almost constantly. The second week he lived there, Steve called Rosie and asked if he’d always been like this and he just hadn’t noticed, and Rosie replied, “Sometimes I think we should’ve had a second child. He’s got that only child mentality. And also, yes. He has. He has a stick and poke tattoo on his ankle and it’s _bad,_ too. The only solace here is that he’s never been arrested, Dad. I can’t be the judge with the kid in juvie.”

So Matty spent the first semester of his senior year playing music too loud and smoking out his bedroom window, spraying a copious amount of deodorant to hide the smell; he swore casually and copiously, which wasn’t something Bucky and Steve had a problem with necessarily (they both swore like sailors and had their entire lives), until he was getting detentions for doing it in class, or started using it every other word in the house.

He was quiet and pleasant around Evie, though, who said, “He’s an angel. A liar and a hooligan, but an angel all the same,” and then left Steve and Bucky to it.

At Christmas, Rosie and Jacob visited, and then they were gone by the end of New Year, 1999 running at full force, the end of the century approaching.

On the sixth of January, a Friday, Bucky let himself into Steve’s house after work. He’d gone into the field, that day; something he’d been doing more and more since Danvers’ return, since he fought aliens and not a single nightmare surfaced. He wasn’t a specialist, nor did he participate in ops; but when they needed an agent to lead a crime scene, he was happy to go, happy to take a gun, happy to do what needed to be done.

(“It’s good to have you back,” Keller had said, when Bucky had tackled and arrested a bomber a few months before. “Don’t act like you knew me before I started desk duty,” Bucky had laughed in reply.)

Now, he entered Steve’s house and found Matty at the kitchen table, eating dinner and filling out a homework sheet. That was something that always intrigued Bucky; Matty was reckless and loud and disobedient, but he never once let his grades slip below a B+ average, like he knew his mother wouldn’t let him hear the end of it if he did. Another thing that always caught Bucky unawares was the fact that he looked exactly like Steve. Taller, bulkier than he had been at that age – but that was Steve’s hair and Steve’s eyes and Steve’s cheekbones, all on Matty’s face. It was uncanny.

“Where’s Steve?” Bucky asked, opening the fridge to find the orange juice. Steve hated it when he drank straight from the carton, which was exactly why he did it.

“Pops is upstairs,” Matty said. “Painting. Something about not wanting to miss the last light.” Matty shrugged and finally pulled his gaze away from his homework, eyes immediately jumping to Bucky. “Is that a gun? Can I see it?”

“No.”

“Can I _hold_ it?”

“What did I just say?”

“That I can’t see it. I’ll shut my eyes if you let me hold it.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “No can do, kiddo. I’m gonna head up and talk to Steve.”

“Shouldn’t you be at home by now?” Matty asked anyway.

“Dinner’s in the oven,” he replied with a shrug. “I’ll be going in a minute. Gotta iron out the details for tomorrow. There’s a dog adoption _thing_ going on at the animal shelter and he’s in the market, I guess.”

Matty perked up. “Pops is getting another dog?”

“Maybe, if he finds one he likes. You’re welcome to join us, if you want.”

So Matty joined them the next day, blowing off plans with his friends to go to an adoption day with his grandfather and grandfather’s best friend. The dogs were kept in open pens outside and cages indoors, and the three of them went around, looking at each one. Matty cooed at all of them, announcing every single time he laid his eyes on a new dog that they were _destined_ to be theirs. Steve wasn’t so sure. It had been three years since they buried Gracie and Bucky knew he missed having a dog around the house, but it was like he was looking for another perfect one; another dog that simply matched him in every way.

“What about that one?” Matty asked. “Or that one? Oh, look at this one, he’s so _fluffy._ You should get a _fluffy dog._ ”

“The dog hair gets everywhere,” Steve said.

“But they’re so _huggable._ ”

Steve and Bucky shared a look and continued on.

By 1999, Steve, officially, was still an artist. Roger Grant’s small exhibitions turned into Steve Roger’s large exhibitions, when he decided he was doing well on merit, rather than name. Still, after Carol Danvers and the aliens, it hadn’t felt right to simply… not do anything.

Bucky knew of Fury’s draft for the Avenger Initiative, named after Carol’s call sign, but he also knew it was a long way off coming together. There were threats that regular people couldn’t hope to handle, but people like Carol—like _Steve_ —might have a shot.

It must’ve been seeing the danger that did it, that brought Steve back into a game that he’d already left.

At the beginning of 1996, he’d taken a meeting with Keller and left with a new job. He had to take entrance exams, almost on principle, and aced them with minimal effort. Steve was given level six clearance right off the bat and handed a team, investigating domestic terror threats, and was promoted to level seven in ’98. His team expanded and then he switched over to foreign intelligence, where it was a lot more reconnaissance and spy work like he was used to.

It was nearing the end of the millennia and they were both out of retirement, and somehow it felt—right. Sometimes their work crossed and they’d take a case together, and that was instantly like old times. Bucky never minded when Steve’s intelligence team got involved, and Steve always seemed to find it amusing when Bucky walked into Steve’s office and said, _Hey, I’m Agent Barnes, I’ll be working with you on your case._

It was like they’d come back together, somehow. They’d never been apart, physically; but maybe emotionally, maybe subconsciously, they’d fallen apart in the eighties, and were now mending the splinters and merging into a single unit again.

It had been Bucky who asked if Steve wanted a dog again.

It was Steve who’d been unsure about it.

Matty, on the other hand, had never wanted anything more in his life.

“Look! Look!” he called from across the shelter. Bucky and Steve had been looking at a Collie playing with a tennis ball, but turned to see Matty, waving them over to a cage, where a mottled brown and white English Springer sat, pawing at Matty’s hand through the cage. “This one only has one eye! Fluffy _and_ a pirate!”

Steve sighed through his nose and crouched down by the cage, and the Springer sniffed at his fingers through the cage door, whining as he went. He peered up at the sign on the door; two-years-old, one-eyed, male. He was described as energetic and excitable, and Steve seemed to ponder this as the Springer caught sight of his own tail and chased it in circles.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Steve said carefully, looking to Matty, crouching beside him. “I’m not sure I want another dog yet, but I’ll get _you_ a dog—”

“Oh, my God, really?”

“— _If_ you stop with the bullshit.” Matty stared at him. “Dogs are a lot of responsibility. They need walking and feeding and cleaning. They need to be trained to shit outside and not in my kitchen, and if they _do_ shit in my kitchen, it needs to be cleaned up so I don’t know a thing about it. But, more than that, dogs need someone they can rely on. I’ll help, of course, but he needs someone who won’t be drunk or high or would rather go to a party than look after him if he needed it.”

“Pops—”

“Matt, I don’t want to pull the Jason card, I don’t. But do you remember what it was like for him? Do you remember how much he hated rehab? How it felt to watch him stand up in court?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing, kid. You’re seventeen. You may not feel like a kid, but you are one, and you’re my responsibility. So, I’ll get you a dog. He’ll be yours. But you’ve got to get your act together.”

“I get good grades,” Matty said, but it was weak. Steve’s gaze was intense, and Bucky knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of it.

“You do, and I’m proud of you for that. But that’s my offer. You’re still welcome to skate and hang out with your friends, and even go to parties sometimes. I just don’t want you getting drunk and stupid, or smoking and thinking I don’t know you’re doing it.”

“You smoke.”

“I’m eighty, I’m allowed to. And I _social smoke._ There’s a difference.”

“That just means you smoke with Uncle Bucky.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Steve waited patiently, and then Matty reluctantly nodded. “Okay. Alright. Deal.”

Matty held out a hand and Steve shook it. “Also stop swearing at school.”

“Too late, you already shook on it.”

The English Springer with one eye was named Blackbeard, though he was brown, and Rosie said on the phone, “You bribed my kid? With a dog?”

“Hey,” Steve said, as Bucky and Matty played with Blackbeard on the living room floor, “if it works, it works.”

*

So Blackbeard brought life into the household, brought stability to Matty, who still swore in the house and smoked out his bedroom window, but lessened the amount of parties he went to and walked his dog every day. No one was sure it was a real fix, or if Matty had just gotten sneakier with the ways he acted out, in order to keep his dog, until summer of 1999, when Steve got a phone call at one a.m. from a landline in a house owned by people Steve had never even heard of.

Bucky heard the story the next day, while Matty laid on the grass with Blackbeard, that he’d gone to a summer party with his friends. He’d been eighteen for a few months, but when the party had turned dark, and the guests had gone from dancing and playing mindless drinking games to his best friend pulling out a bag of cocaine, he’d hesitated and excused himself, and called home and asked Steve to come pick him up because he was all the way across town and pretty damn drunk.

It was lucky Steve got there when he did, considering the kid who was high as a kite and had jumped in the pool, only to swallow water and start drowning, just as Steve pulled up out front.

It took a few days before Matty started acting like himself again, and then Blackbeard’s presence was no longer a bargaining chip and simply part of the family. Matty had no intention of going to college, despite Rosie’s dearest wishes, and stayed all through the fall and winter. He got a job nearby and considered moving to D.C., only to realise he liked living with Steve more than he liked having an empty house to himself when he visited his parents.

His act was not necessarily _together_ , but he was growing, and he took responsibility, and Blackbeard had been trained well enough to shit in only a specific spot in the yard, so that was good enough for Steve.

Christmas was a loud affair again, with a dog once more and everyone crowding into one room. They got a little drunk and ate too much food and Peggy swung by in the evening to see everyone, Daniel Sousa by her side, still walking with that limp but still as pleasant as ever. And Bucky watched Steve and noticed there wasn’t even a twitch of pain there; that eighteen years of separation had forged something less painful than whatever they used to have; had salvaged the friendship they’d built long, long ago.

And then a few days later, Bucky and Evie had gone to the park for a walk; they always liked seeing the kids with their parents, riding their new bikes or wearing their Christmas present roller skates. And they’d just passed the frozen-over duck pond when Evie stopped and said, “Buck,” and then collapsed hard against the path, her breathing cutting off and her heart refusing to work.

Bucky yelled for help, for someone to call an ambulance, and it was a teenage girl who’d run to the park café over the hill to call, because no one in their vicinity had a mobile phone and the only one Bucky used was for work, so he’d left it switched off at home for a winter walk with his wife, and he’d pumped life into her chest, breathed air into her lungs, and waited, pleading and crying and aching until the paramedics arrived.

*

It was almost 2000.

Everyone and their mother was afraid of the millennium bug; of computers crashing around the world. Bucky was afraid of his wife dying.

Somewhere, probably in New York, maybe in California, Tony Stark was throwing his annual New Year’s Eve party. Howard and Maria had been dead nine years, now; a car crash on a deserted dark lane that looked an awful lot like sabotage, covered up and made classified; a destroyed, grainy security tape and a son who was told, quietly, plainly, that maybe it had been a murder, but officially, it would forever remain an accident.

Bucky didn’t know who would even be at the party tonight. The kids were nearby, in the city, each of them swinging by daily, spending hours at a time by Evie’s bedside, giving Bucky a few minutes reprieve to wash his face and eat something not from the hospital cafeteria.

He thought it likely that none of them were out. That maybe they were spending the night quietly, together.

The seconds were ticking by, the twentieth century ending. How would they look back on it? With a sense of pride? Of accomplishment? Would they count the death tallies? Would they sensationalise the wars? Or would the next century arrive, no different from the one before?

He was slumped low in his seat, watching the heart monitor. He was thinking about his life with Evie. About who she’d been, who he’d been for her. He was thinking about the night they met – _May I cut in? You absolutely may_ – and how they danced, free and loose and utterly infatuated from the first moment. _I’m Evie Adams. James Barnes._ He’d seen her across the room and had been struck still, struck dumb; she would be his next fifty years and he didn’t even know it then.

Didn’t even know it was possible to love someone for that length of time.

He wanted the full fifty. They were at forty-eight years of marriage and counting. Two more years and they’d be golden; he was going to give her a new ring, engraved and solid gold. Evie loved following the yearly gifts, had insisted upon it every year of their marriage; had covered their bed in origami hearts for paper, bought him a soft new shirt for cotton. Shoes for leather, planted up the whole garden for flowers, a carving her father had made for wood. Yearly, showing love, yearly, loving him more.

Bucky Barnes had never deserved Evie Adams and he knew it.

He hadn’t deserved her and her acceptance, her understanding; hadn’t deserved her and the way she’d held his hand, talked him through nightmares and breakdowns, from interrogation to raising a son not to be like his father. He hadn’t deserved her, and she hadn’t deserved to go so quickly.

He wanted the full fifty. He wanted those extra years.

The past few, even, in their contradictory joy and heartache, had still been wonderful with her there beside him. She’d sat quietly, her hand in his, at court for Jason. Had mourned by his side for his sister and brother-in-laws. She’d kissed Rosie’s cheek and hugged her tight when she got her judgeship in the Supreme Court, told Scott a hundred whispered stories about Captain America and Bucky Barnes, that he would memorise and write down, for that still unauthorised authorised biography he was writing. She was there through the good and the bad, writing her recipes in long, cursive handwriting, and slipping each card into a plain wooden box for him to keep. She loved Blackbeard and talked at length with Matty and spent summer days lying out in the garden, old and smiling in the afternoon sun.

Her body was slowly breaking down, though. Her heart was weak, her lungs struggling. They’d had soft conversations those last few days, Evie barely able to speak and Bucky telling her everything he’d ever wanted to. Told her about the night he first saw her, about the parts of her he admired, the parts he envied. He told her every story he might’ve forgotten, every moment he could think of from before they met.

He told her, quietly, at three a.m. while she wheezed through the night, that he had known his whole life that he loved men like he loved women, and it had taken him an entire lifetime to come to terms with it, and she had locked eyes with him, and slowly pulled his hand up to her mouth, where she kissed his knuckles feather-light and whispered, the best she could, “Bucky Barnes… you are a person made of love.”

And Bucky had cried, at three a.m., and she had brushed her hand through his hair until they both fell asleep, waking to see Charlie the next morning, nudging his shoulder and asking how she was doing.

She was doing no better, and Bucky’s shoulders were weightless. He had loved Evie Barnes since 1950—a whole fifty years, even if their marriage was two years short—and he had chosen right.

It had been Christmas in 1985 when he told Rich that he wouldn’t know he’d chosen the right person until he was thirty years down the line.

Bucky was fifty and he had chosen right. He had chosen Evie and she had chosen him, and it had been the best decision either of them had ever made.

*

At eleven forty-three p.m., December thirty-first, 1999, Steve Rogers walked into Evie’s hospital room. Bucky stared at him.

Steve first stopped by Evie’s side, dropping a kiss against her forehead and brushing aside her hair, and then shifted a chair to Bucky’s side, dropping into it easily.

“You didn’t think I was going to let you finish the century alone, did you?” Steve asked, sitting so close their knees touched. He flung a hand out and dropped it onto Bucky’s shoulder, then shifted it down until he grasped his hand. “‘Til the end of the line, Buck,” he said. “We’ve got a whole ‘nother century to go.”

They stayed quiet; Steve holding Bucky’s hand loosely, and Bucky holding Evie’s tight until midnight. 1999 ended and 2000 began. Bucky felt no different. He could hear distant cheering from somewhere in the hospital. He looked over to Steve.

“I’m scared to face the next hundred years without her.”

Steve’s mouth pulled at the edges, and he shifted closer. “You won’t be alone,” he said.

“I know. I just wish she had what we have, sometimes.”

“I thought you hated what we have.”

Bucky sniffed, and looked to Evie. “Yeah, well it’s moments like these when I wish she had it, too. All three of us could be lonely together.”

There was a time when the three musketeers meant Bucky and Steve and Peggy. There was a time when Evie was the fourth musketeer, their very own D’Artagnan. Times changed and so did people. Evie, however, remained steadfast, remained the same.

“I love her so much,” Bucky said and the first tear of the century fell.

“I know.”

The second rolled down and then the third. Steve pulled Bucky into an embrace; Bucky’s head tucked into the crook of Steve’s neck, one arm stretched out, holding Evie, never letting go, and the other hand clawing at Steve, trying to get some kind of grounding.

The world emptied out, bottomless, and Bucky felt no different.

Bucky cried, and Steve cried, and the heart monitor flatlined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god u know what i think i cried while writing this chapter and i cried a little while editing it a minute ago too like,,,,, i love evie so much and i'm so happy i wrote her into this story. pretty please talk to me in the comments, tell me what you're thinking. how do u feel about gracie passing and blackbeard the pirate dog and matty and evie and how the last five years of the century went for bucky???? how are u feeling knowing for sure that you're actually gonna get some stucky at the end of this journey (it will not end with the declaration if ur wondering, we'll get to see a bit of what their lives are like when they spend them together)??? how are u feeling knowing we're in a WHOLE NEW CENTURY. i can officially stop imagining this story in sepia and with vintage floral dresses and cars from 1920 even though all those things don't relate to the '90s at all. we're officially in the time of colour television lmao


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay....... for the first time, i feel confident about the estimation of 18 chapters.
> 
> secondly, i'm sorry for killing evie but bucky was Not going to cheat on her and bucky certainly wasn't going to divorce her so death was really the only option here if you want that endgame stucky. i've also had A Day when it comes to writing; i'm a few chapters ahead of you guys and can i just say, words don't have enough synonyms. we need more words that mean the same things as other words.
> 
> also, please enjoy the chapter: an ode to evie and bucky barnes.

“I believe Evelyn had a poem chosen?”

The priest looked across the mourners after finishing his prayer. They were a sea of black, eyes downcast and stormy. Bucky was a shipwreck amongst it all; hollow, broken, drowned.

Steve raised his hand to signal the priest and unfolded the square of paper from his jacket pocket. Around him, frost covered the ground and clouds gathered overhead. It was the fifth of January. Evie Barnes was dead.

By her graveside, plotted next to her parents and brother, Steve stood with an arm around Bucky, his hand pressed into the nape of his neck. He probably should’ve moved to the priest’s side, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood firm, stood tall, and read aloud.

“Do not stand at my grave and weep,” he said, and Bucky drilled his gaze down into the hole where Evie’s coffin gleamed black. Pink and white flowers decorated the top. “I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glint on snow.”

Sylvia’s hand was tight in Bucky’s, her head bowed, sniffling almost silent. Almost.

“I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain.”

Charlie was on her other side. And Rosie. And Rich.

“When you wake in the morning hush, I am the swift, uplifting rush of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the soft starlight at night.”

Across the grave stood Peggy, stood Daniel. Stood Evie’s little sister, her lifelong friends.

“Do not stand at my grave and weep,” Steve read. “I am not there, I do not sleep.”

Evelyn Isabelle Barnes, surrounded by her husband, children, grandchildren. Her friends, her family, her everything. Their neighbours, the community, the girls she used to dance with and the people who flocked weekly to the community centre she ran. The local community garden workers, the employees from the shops.

A black sea, an ocean. Of weeping, of mourning, of love.

Steve’s hand was warm on the back of Bucky’s neck.

He said, “Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there, I did not die.”

And oh, if only that had been the case.

*

Holly was the youngest of the grandchildren at twelve, and she spent much of the wake sitting on Bucky’s lap, her red hair a wild tangle and little hands knotting themselves in the fabric of his suit jacket. She and Evie had been close, despite her being the youngest of the brood, and she had spent many afternoons after school completing her homework at Evie’s side while she knitted or watched television. She taught Holly to make scarves, too, then hats and jumpers. Holly still dropped stitches regularly, and needing help casting on and off, and now there was no one else in the family to teach her.

She’d burrowed into Bucky’s chest almost the moment he sat down, as if being close to him would bring back her grandma, and the large, soft scarf Evie had gifted her only two weeks before at Christmas was wrapped twice around her neck, her face hidden within it. Her glasses poked uncomfortably into his chest, but he didn’t mention it.

In fact, Bucky didn’t say much at the wake. Masses of people came to his house over the afternoon, all funnelling in and out, drinking wine or eating the finger food Marcia, Charlie’s wife, had remembered to buy. They often came to find him, the guests, but they just found a quiet man, rubbing Holly’s back and staring out across the room, to where a photo of Evie sat on the mantel above the fireplace, from when she was young and had so much life left to live.

Steve came round sometimes and put a drink in his hand, then returned when the glass was empty to refill it. At one point, Charlie sat beside him on the sofa, quiet and steady, and rested his head, some forty-seven years old, on Bucky’s shoulder. He was gone again fifteen minutes later, replaced by Sylvia, who’d cried the whole day and the week leading up to it. She didn’t say much either, because there was not much to say.

Bucky’s wife was dead, and now he had to keep living.

It was later, in the evening, after Holly had fallen asleep and Ryan had carried her upstairs, to the guest bedroom, that Bucky walked out into the garden. He swiped the lighter and pack of cigarettes along the way, stepping outside into the freezing winter air, and lighting up to smoke.

He was halfway through when the back door opened and Steve stepped outside.

“Christ alive,” he muttered, rubbing his bare hands together. “It’s fucking freezing out here. Why aren’t you wearing a coat?” Steve ducked back inside and returned a moment later, holding out a coat for Bucky to pull on. “It’s like you _want_ hypothermia,” Steve said when it was on. He then held out a hand and Bucky placed the cigarettes into it as he went fishing for the lighter again.

“Do you think we should go on a trip?” Steve asked, placing a cigarette between his lips. He cupped his hands around it and Bucky held up the flame until it caught.

“Why would we do that?” he asked, his voice as indifferent about that as it had been about most everything else for the past five days.

Steve shrugged. “We went on a post-divorce road trip.”

“Yeah and you remember how that turned out.”

They fell silent with the memory. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to care.

He had lost his wife. He had lost _Evie._ The only thing he’d felt since New Year’s was deep, crushing, overwhelming sadness. He’d cried all his tears and left himself dehydrated and numb. He couldn’t bear to sleep in his own bed knowing she wasn’t there, and so had slept in Charlie’s old room every night, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling when he wasn’t catching his nightly two hours of sleep.

They looked out across the back yard, at the way it shrivelled in winter, quiet and cold. The flowers had died and been pulled up, the vegetables not yet planted for the next season. The greenhouse was empty, and the barbeque covered.

Steve said, “Did you read the obituary in the paper?”

Bucky shook his head. “Sylvie said it was long.”

“Made front page news.”

“Slow news week.”

“No,” Steve replied, mild. “A lot of people care about our families. It’s a very nice obituary. Some nice photos, too.”

The back door creaked open. Bucky kept staring at the garden. Steve said, “Hey, Peg.”

“Boys,” she said. Peggy was almost seventy now. She was bundled up in a coat and scarf, with gloves on the hands she buried in her pockets. “Oh, mind if I bum one?”

Bucky held out the cigarettes and then lit Peggy’s too, and the three of them smoked into the evening.

“You shouldn’t smoke you know,” Steve said.

“Hypocrite,” Peggy replied.

“Of course, but it’s true. Gal of your age—”

“Finish that sentence, Rogers, and I’ll send my boot right up your—”

Steve laughed over the end of her sentence. Peggy followed, and Bucky watched the two of them, old and divorced and still getting to be friends, still getting along. He wished he had that. He wished Evie were out on the patio, smoking with them.

Peggy caught his gaze and her expression softened. “Second chances, James. Now it’s your turn.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for a second chance, yet,” he replied.

She hummed. “Maybe you should get away for a while. Go on holiday.”

“It’s almost like you’re ganging up on me.”

“Two against one,” Steve said, rocking back on his heels. “Just like the good old days.”

“Just like the good old days,” Bucky muttered, and stubbed out the end of his cigarette, crushing it with his shoe.

He supposed they’d come full circle. He and Steve and Peggy. From the forties in a cramped apartment, smoking out the window in summer after the war, to now, in the year 2000, smoking at Evie’s wake.

They’d come a long way.

They still had a way to go.

*

Bucky had considered going back to work right away, even though he still struggled walking into his own bedroom to get dressed in the morning. By the day of the funeral, he’d just moved a pile of clothes into Charlie’s old room and hoped he had everything. The only reason he went back was for Evie’s pillow, and then he shut the door and didn’t go in again.

Keller had other ideas about him coming into work, especially after attending the funeral and seeing Bucky’s vacant stare, sitting at one end of the sofa in silence all afternoon, a small-for-her-age redheaded girl curled up in his lap. He gave him two weeks and said to call if he needed more.

Bucky had no plans to call. He had no plans to do anything.

He barely slept and yet didn’t get up until late. He got dressed into whatever he could find. He drank a pint of water just to prove that he had, and then didn’t eat until it was dinner time, the hours passing without him even aware of them. Three days after the funeral, he stood in the kitchen for four hours, his head somewhere else entirely. He wasn’t sure where. He blinked and the sun had gone down.

People visited, of course.

Neighbours came with casseroles and lasagne. _Heat for forty on two-twenty,_ they’d say. _Get the dish back whenever, I don’t mind._ The freezer filled up with meals he didn’t plan to eat. No one labelled them. He had no idea who to give each dish back to.

His children came almost daily, because they were mourning just the same as him, but he lived alone and they were reminded constantly of life, of responsibility to one another. Bucky’s house was empty, four bedrooms and hollow. Too big for one man to live in alone; how had Steve coped all these years? How had he rattled around his own house without the sounds of someone puttering around the kitchen, watching the television, reading out on the lawn?

It occurred to him, on the fourth day after the funeral, that Steve _hadn’t_ coped. That the minute Peggy Carter moved out, Steve started coming over for breakfast most days, inviting Bucky and Evie over for dinners on the others. He started attending the VA, going to groups multiple times a week. He played music loudly, ran each morning, adopted a German Shepherd puppy that was loud and attention-seeking. He filled up his empty house the best he could, and when it was still too empty at the end of the day, he’d go somewhere else.

And it had escaped Bucky’s notice, all the while.

Steve came over daily. He still had work, and so spent the daylight hours at the office, but made sure to come by every evening to pull out a dish from the freezer and cook it up for the two of them. He’d ask Bucky about his day, ask him about the interesting combination of ancient Led Zeppelin t-shirt, swimming shorts, and mismatched socks, ask him if he wanted to go to the park or take Blackbeard for a walk.

They ate in the dining room, sitting opposite each other, and Bucky mostly just pushed the food around his plate and ate small bites until he felt like throwing up. Steve would stay until Bucky grew tired, usually, and one night a week after the funeral he heard the phone ring as he started upstairs, and sighed full-body, until Steve said, “I’ll get it, go to bed. You look dead on your feet.”

He trudged upstairs, and though he didn’t care what was said on the phone, his ears were too finely tuned to ignore it, so he heard Sylvia’s voice ask, “How is he?” and Steve’s reply, “He’s been better.”

Bucky stopped on the landing and stared at Steve’s painting of the twins.

“I’m worried about him,” Sylvia said, her voice tinny and distant.

“Me too,” Steve replied in a whisper. “I don’t know what to do, though. I didn’t expect this kind of reaction, either.”

“Mm. I’d thought he’d cry for a few days then move on,” Sylvia agreed. “He never liked to linger. Did he go to his therapy session?”

“No, I think he cancelled it. He’s practically catatonic, kid. I’m not sure what to do about it. If he’ll snap out of it or not.”

“Is he sleeping in his own room again yet?”

“No,” Steve replied. “Do you think I should get him a dog?”

“It may be difficult to believe, but dogs aren’t the answer to all life’s problems.”

Bucky went to bed in Charlie’s room and stared at the ceiling until sleep finally overtook him.

The next day, he got out of bed at noon, got dressed in an old 1983 _Captain America: The Movie_ t-shirt with Arnold Schwarzenegger’s anguished face on the front and the first pair of jeans he could find, and drank a pint of water in the study, staring at the wedding photos above the desk. He’d eventually removed Sylvia and Mark’s, though she’d yet to remarry with Ryan. Rather, he’d sliced the image down the centre and returned Sylvia’s half the wall, only an inch of Mark’s arm peeking along the edge.

In the top drawer of the desk was the old Colt, and he stared at it for a moment before shutting the drawer again. Steve had confiscated the bullets decades ago anyway, and Bucky hadn’t kept up with the maintenance. It probably wouldn’t even fire.

He knew his work gun was sat on the dresser in his bedroom, but that would involve _entering_ that room. He didn’t have the effort for that.

After an hour in the study, Bucky decided that he couldn’t take the photos anymore.

There were a thousand faces staring at him. He was watched. He wasn’t alone. They were everywhere and he hated that, suddenly, venomously, and he worked, one by one, taking every photo down and resting it on the floor against the wall, the faces staring into corners. He covered the study first, then the foyer; the kitchen, the dining room, the living room. The stairs and the landing, the room that was once Charlie’s, and Sylvia’s, and the guest room. There were no photos in the bathrooms. He took down the original _Captain America and The Howling Commandos_ posters, and all of Steve’s paintings, until the walls across the house were bare. Until each room had a hundred dust lines, a thousand shadow spots; where the paint had faded in the sun and left rectangles hidden behind the past.

Then he sat in the living room and waited for Steve to arrive, who did, who stood in the foyer and called, “Bucky?”, who took one look at him in the living room and said, “I don’t know how to help you,” like it was the greatest failing of his existence.

Bucky said, “I’m so tired.”

“I know, buddy.”

“I want to sleep.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Steve helped Bucky upstairs, his lips pressed into a thin line as he surveyed every empty wall, and then sat him on the bed in Charlie’s old room, before toeing off his shoes and climbing on beside him.

Bucky curled up under the covers and Steve sat over them, back against the headboard, ankles crossed.

Steve said quietly, “Do you remember when we first met?” Bucky didn’t respond. “I think I was seven. You would’ve been eight, then. There was this girl I was _in love with_ on the playground. Mary-Ann Ridley. You remember her? She wore blonde pigtails every day and her Ma worked as a nurse with my Ma. We didn’t have playdates, exactly, but sometimes our Mas would work really late, so Mary-Ann’s Dad would feed me dinner too, and we’d read in the living room or go out back and play. We usually read ‘cause she liked running games and any time I ran I’d start wheezing so bad I thought I’d die.

“Mary-Ann Ridley was my only friend back then, and we weren’t really friends. She gossiped about me with all her real friends, I guess, and she only hung out ‘cause she had to. But I was young and dumb, and I thought I really had a shot with her.” Steve exhaled a laugh. “Then one day I walk onto the playground and who do I see Mary-Ann kissing? Only the school’s number one heartthrob, _Bucky Barnes._ ”

Bucky rolled onto his back. “I wasn’t the school heartthrob.”

“Yes, you were,” Steve said. “I think I’d know. I was there. I heard all the gossip. That you’d made out with Amy-Beth Willis under the sycamore tree and promised Sally Jenkins you’d marry her out by the playshed.”

“Sally Jenkins is a liar,” Bucky replied.

“Sally Jenkins was seven.”

Bucky sniffed. “Can be a liar at seven.”

“God, I was so pissed, though. Seeing the _love of my life_ , Mary-Ann Ridley kissing _Bucky Barnes_ in the playground before class. I almost had a fit. I stormed right up to you and said—”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you girl-stealing jerk?” Bucky imitated.

Steve laughed and Bucky reluctantly peered up at him.

“Ain’t stealing her from anybody,” Steve mimicked. “You gotta have her to have her get stolen.” He looked down at Bucky. “Mary-Ann found it the funniest thing on the planet that I thought I had a chance with her. Even told you to kick the crap outta me; fight for her honour or something. You wouldn’t do it though, said it’d be an unfair fight ‘cause I had lungs the size of baby birds. The next day Ronald Thomas wasn’t so honourable and beat me up on the way home from school, and who yanks him by the shoulder and breaks his nose?”

“The girl-stealing jerk,” Bucky mumbled.

“That’s right, buddy.”

Bucky sniffed and curled onto his side again, the covers high up around him. He was so tired. He just wanted to sleep. Wanted to wake up and have it be eighty years ago and him meeting Steve on the playground all over again. Wanted to live life over, meet Evie at the beginning, dance with her more, sing with her more, cook with her more. Wanted to know every little thing about her, everything he missed even after all this time; wanted to relearn every single inch of her existence, commit it to memory, not forget a thing.

He’d wake up one day and she’d be a distant memory.

He’d wake up and not instantly remember the exact shade of her hair, the colour of her eyes.

He’d wake up and forget the sound of her voice.

Bucky shut his eyes and let the tear slip over the ridge of his nose, across his cheek and onto Evie’s pillow.

Steve said quietly, “Take your time, Buck. But I’ll be here, alright? I’ll come over and make sure you eat, and when you want those photos back up, I’ll help you hang them. Don’t worry about a thing.” His hand was hesitant, gentle, stroking through Bucky’s hair. “When I say ‘til the end of the line, I mean it, pal.”

“I miss her,” Bucky whispered.

“I do too,” he replied. “I’ve never known anyone in my life like Evie, and I doubt I will again.”

Steve stroked Bucky’s hair, and Bucky cried silently, softly, and eventually, he fell asleep.

*

Two weeks after the funeral, Steve phoned Keller and said, “He hasn’t stepped outside once since the funeral… yeah… yes, I know… He needs time, Robert. Alright. Thanks, I’ll let him know,” and then Bucky had more time to mourn.

When Steve came in the living room, Bucky said, “I want to go somewhere.”

Steve blinked then covered his surprise. “Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know. Where’s Tony Stark living now?”

“What? Uh? Malibu, I think.”

“California. Alright. Let’s go there.”

“Buck—”

“Call off work,” Bucky said, turning and taking his glass back into the kitchen. “Let’s go on vacation.”

“For how long?” Steve asked after him, a crease between his eyebrows.

“How long did you make me call off for after your divorce?”

“Two weeks?”

Bucky shrugged. “Sounds good. Two weeks it is.”

He left the glass on the counter and started towards the stairs to pack his things, when Steve caught him, stopping him from brushing past. Steve placed his hands on Bucky’s arms, frowning.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Bucky paused. “No,” he said. “My wife is dead. I’m not alright. Not in any way. Let’s go on vacation.”

“… Alright,” Steve said. “Okay. Let’s go on vacation. California. I’ll need to go home and pack—”

“Can you get my stuff first? I don’t really…” Bucky trailed off and Steve ended up going through the dressers in Bucky’s bedroom, a place he still had yet to set foot again, and delivered all the clothes to the hall where Bucky waited, staring at the backs of the photo frames.

Steve went to his house and called off work, packed his things, and returned thirty minutes later. Bucky called a taxi, and they threw their things in the car, and Bucky stared at the community centre as they drove by, remembering twenty years before when he’d darted in to kiss his wife goodbye on their last spontaneous trip.

And then they climbed on a plane, and Steve called ahead, and they were destined for California.

*

Tony Stark was twenty-nine and a little bit unbearable.

Bucky had seen the gossip magazines, so he knew all about the playboy lifestyle he was living. Bucky had lived eighty years, so he knew all about what an extended breakdown looked like.

Tony Stark had been like this since college, which he’d attended at age fifteen. At first, it was probably just a rebellious phase; the freedom of the Stark shackles found in a new place, surrounded by older kids who had access to things he didn’t. Then, after his parents died, it was probably a coping mechanism; a way to push the responsibilities away, make a name for himself that didn’t relate back to Howard, to keep his head above water and stop himself from drowning. He’d kept in sporadic touch with Bucky and Steve over the years; the occasional phone call, occasional announcement that he’d found something that looked a lot like memorabilia and _are you living in the same place ‘cause I can send it over if you want?_

Steve felt like he held some sort of responsibility for the kid, and tried to call a few times a month, despite half of the calls going through to voicemail.

Tony’s mansion in Malibu overlooked the ocean. It had a sweeping driveway and panoramic windows. Marble floors and sleek, modern furniture.

When Steve and Bucky arrived, it was his assistant that let them in, and then Tony appeared from a basement staircase, half-dressed and hands covered in what looked like motor oil.

“Cap,” he greeted with a smile. “Barnes! Good to see you both. I see you’ve met my assistant. Did you do introductions?”

“Virginia Potts,” the assistant said. She was tall, young, with golden orange hair and blue eyes.

“Pepper,” Tony corrected. “Pepper Potts. You’ve seen her hair, right? That’s ole’ Cap, and his young Buck. The guest rooms are prepared for them I assume.”

“Of course, Mr Stark. I can show them to their rooms now if you’d like?”

“Yes, yes, show them away. You’ve visited on a good week, gentlemen; Paris Hilton’s throwing a bash tonight and Orlando Bloom’s got one this weekend. You’re going to have a _ball._ ” He didn’t stay long enough for their protests and disappeared back downstairs.

Steve looked to his assistant. “Do you _want_ us to call you Pepper, or…?”

She threw her hands up with a sigh. “Might as well. Everyone else does. Come on, I’ll show you to your rooms.”

It wasn’t until that night, when Bucky and Steve both declined going to Paris Hilton’s party that Tony seemed to remember that Bucky’s wife had died three weeks before. He’d stopped, suddenly, as the memory came back, and for a moment whatever bravado he’d been wearing slipped, to show something a little bit genuine.

He said, “I’m sorry about Evie. My Mom loved her. Always got—got really excited to visit. I don’t have such a—such a good memory of her. Guess I haven’t been around in a while. But I remember her from when I was a kid. She made these muffins, didn’t she?”

“Blueberry,” Bucky said, hoarse.

Tony nodded. “Tried to get Jarvis to make some, too, but they never were quite the same.”

“She had a secret recipe.” He recalled the box she’d collected them all in. “I could get it for you, if you want.”

Tony cocked his head to the side. “I’m not much of a baker,” he admitted.

“Neither am I.”

And then he was out the door, climbing into some fancy Ferrari with his bodyguard and disappearing into the night. Steve and Bucky spent the evening on the balcony, watching the moon rise and the waves roll, all the while craving blueberry muffins.

*

In California, Bucky and Steve went to the beach no matter how cold it was. They sat on the sand for hours, just watching the waves, and then huddled for warmth inside a café or restaurant, Bucky’s appetite finally returning. They visited museums and art galleries to pass the time, borrowed one of Tony’s beautiful sports cars and drove along the coast and back, found a spot to hike and climbed up for a better view.

They didn’t talk much, at first. At least, Bucky didn’t. Steve sometimes filled the air with meaningless chatter, mundane stories. Matty’s job boring him or Blackbeard digging holes in the garden; Rosie’s complaints about a fellow judge and Rich’s silent war against a neighbour who was denying global warming to his face; him, an environmental scientist.

Over time, though, Bucky started finding his voice again, just like he’d found his appetite. At first, he just complained about the beard he’d grown since he’d stopped bothering to shave, and then about how long he’d been alive and never gotten a tattoo. He talked about the beautiful young woman who had walked right past them in the kitchen that morning, half dressed and holding her clothes, not even making eye contact as she left the house, and then about Tony’s pet project that he had rambled about the day before, that essentially brought his now-passed butler back to life in the form of a voice in the ceiling.

After a week, they were talking about Evie, because that was why they had come, and then they stopped because Bucky’s nerves were fried and every time they touched that sore subject it was like a shot to the chest.

“You’re gonna have to talk about her eventually,” Steve said as they sat out on the balcony in the evening. “She existed. She was here. She deserves to be remembered.”

“I know,” Bucky replied. “I’m just—I feel like I’m back in the trenches all over again.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. He’d never seen the trenches himself, managed to bypass being a foot soldier by going from performing monkey to American hero in one night in Italy. But the trenches had been something else; they’d been gory and cruel, filled with piss and shit and blood, and every inch of trench was as disgusting as the next. No one was happy there, no one was okay. Everyone screamed through the night or didn’t sleep for weeks.

“It’s the—the agitation,” Bucky said. “Like an attack’s gonna come and I’ve gotta be ready for it. It feels like I’m sitting in my wife’s blood and tomorrow I’ll get up and switch spots and sit in someone else’s.” He took a breath, looked out at the sunset. “I feel like I’m one of the bodies that just laid in the mud and died. Like I’m trapped. Like I’m dying. Like I’m with a hundred men just like me but we’re all so fucking alone.”

Steve reached across from his chair and put his hand on Bucky’s knee. “I don’t know how to help you, Buck.”

“Neither do I, Stevie,” he said. “I thought that was pretty obvious.”

*

The first thing he did was shave off the beard.

Tony handed him the clippers himself and suggested a goatee, which Bucky scoffed at. For a moment, they stared at each other in the mirror, then Tony said, “I think we’re lucky, you and me.”

Bucky pulled a face. “How so?”

“Shit happens, Barnes. And it happens a _lot._ But at least we’ve got people around us who don’t let us sink in it.”

“Who do you have?”

“Rhodey. He’s my best friend. Happy, my bodyguard. Even Pepper. I used to have Jarvis, too, before he passed. But, point is—we’re not alone, Barnes.”

Bucky swallowed. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Yeah,” he said, waving a hand. “Don’t tell anyone I got sentimental; it’ll ruin my image.” Then he was gone, and Bucky was left with the clippers and a beard that had to go.

Then, after two weeks of chill and winds in California, watching the water and driving for miles, they returned to the harsher winter of New York and the beginning of a new century. Bucky returned to his house, where the walls were desperately bare, and climbed up the stairs until he was stood outside his bedroom.

He stopped himself from going in, though, and went to Charlie’s room instead, where Evie’s pillow had lost its scent and his clothes were still strewn across the floor. Bucky grabbed the pillow and walked back to his bedroom, where he opened the door and stared inside.

It was kept like a mausoleum. Like a shrine to a dead woman.

He didn’t step inside, just held the pillow to his chest and stared.

Bucky heard the footsteps on the stairs, and looked over to see Steve on the landing, face pinched in concern.

“How’d you do it?” Bucky asked, looking back to his bedroom. He’d made the bed on the twenty-eighth of December, the last day Evie had been here. She’d left out her perfume on the vanity, her jewellery scattered across a copper dish. On the closet door hung the dress she’d planned to wear on New Year’s Eve, red and well-loved.

Steve asked, “How’d I do what?” He joined Bucky by the door.

“When Peggy left,” Bucky said. “The house is so… empty. How’d you manage to stay?”

“It’s my home,” Steve replied. “I didn’t want to leave.”

Bucky thought back to how he avoided it, though, how he filled it with life and stayed away if it was quiet. Bucky didn’t want to spend the next fifty years alone and desperately trying not to be.

He said, “I don’t want to live on my own.”

“No?”

“The house is too big for me by myself. It’s—it’s my home, sure. But…”

“But you don’t want to live in the quiet.”

Bucky looked over to Steve, who swung his hand up to land at Bucky’s neck, just as it had on the day of the funeral; warm, comforting. His best friend since the day he saw Ronald Thomas beating on him in an alley on the way back from school; that kid who’d yelled at him the day before for kissing the girl he liked. Bucky had walked Steve home after scaring away Ronald, and along the way, Bucky had told Steve about his boxing classes, about his sisters and how his Ma was pregnant and he was hoping it’d be a boy. _I want a brother,_ Bucky had said, and by the time Catherine had arrived, all red-faced and tiny, Bucky hadn’t minded about getting another sister, because Steve was there beside him on the couch, cooing over the new baby like all the Barnes siblings, just another member of the pack.

Steve said, “You just have to ask, Buck,” and Bucky sniffed.

“It’s more embarrassing if you say no, though.”

Steve laughed. “I’m not gonna say no.”

“You promise?”

“I swear on my mother’s grave.”

Bucky gripped Evie’s pillow tight in his hands and studied Steve for all of three seconds before asking, “You wanna live with me again? Like we used to?”

Steve smiled. “I thought you’d never ask. I got one condition though.”

“What’s that?”

“You gotta put the photos back up. Your walls look weird without them.”

For the first time since the funeral, a laugh was startled out of Bucky. Steve looked proud of himself for causing it.

“You made a bad deal,” Bucky said. “I was gonna put them back up, anyway.”

So they went around the house, hanging the photos back on the wall, a new order when they couldn’t remember how they used to sit; that one of Bucky and Steve at a birthday party; of Charlie and Sylvia at Christmas; Steve’s kids when they were young and cute; Peggy and Bucky hunched together and smoking out a window. The posters went back up, as did the paintings, all oil and acrylic and painstakingly painted. Then the wedding photos, the ones of the babies, the awards and the graduations and the school portraits over the stairs.

The family photos: Bucky and Evie and Sylvia and Charlie.

The family photos: Steve and Peggy and Rosie and Rich.

The family photos: Bucky and Steve and Evie and Peggy.

Then all the ones of Evie; her young and blurred, laughing in greyscale; middle-aged by Bucky’s side; with babies on her hips or children in her arms; dancing; grinning; getting married; tucked tight into Bucky’s arms drunk out of her mind and oh-so-beautiful and happy.

They went back up on the walls and Bucky silently apologised for taking them down.

Then he searched for a casserole in the freezer and made his mind up to start living again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the initial poem is called "do not stand at my grave and weep" by mary elizabeth frye. it is one of my favourite poems and i'd like it read at my funeral, too.
> 
> also, PL E A S E talk to me i'm sad and emo and i miss evie because i created her and i loved her and i wanted the best for her and then i had to CRUELLY KILL HER so bucky could make out with steve. pls tell me what you thought!!!! i love reading comments and seeing them helps me get all inspired and excited to tell the next part of the story
> 
> thank u for reading!!!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the shortest chapter in the fic, at 3.7k. it was also the hardest to write, because it's very much an in-between chapter, leaving the last part of bucky's life behind and setting us up for the ending. which will be 18 chapters. officially. and i know this because i'm writing that chapter rn. and struggling. because i don't want to say goodbye
> 
> but luckily! you guys aren't there yet and you can read chapter 15 instead, which is still set in the year 2000 because i don't know what time jumps are

Steve moved into Bucky’s house over the course of a week.

They’d considered moving into Steve’s, but Steve insisted he was happy to move to Bucky’s, and besides, Bucky would’ve probably had a nervous breakdown over the prospect of moving Evie’s things. So Steve moved into Bucky’s, and Matty Hall and Blackbeard came with.

Over a week, the house became filled with life again.

The first thing that happened was Bucky worked up the courage to go back in his bedroom again. He moved Evie’s red party dress from the door of the closet and slotted it carefully back inside. He put Evie’s pillow back where it belonged, and then tidied up the vanity, so it looked less like the mess she’d left it as. After some hesitation, he changed the bedsheets, then sprayed her perfume back over her pillow, so he’d feel less guilty about it. Bucky moved his clothes back and resolved to sleep in there that night.

He did, barely.

But it was enough, he supposed.

They then had to choose between Steve’s things and his. Which took two whole evenings of debating the quality of the beds in spare rooms versus the beds in Steve’s house; the cooking utensils and crockery, the dining chairs and if they really matched the table more than Steve’s did. Each item was looked at and considered over, and then they’d invite Matty in after walking the dog and he’d say, “You both have terrible taste in furniture, just buy something new,” and so occasionally they’d do that, too.

It was over a weekend in February that they moved everything else over. The photos and books and nicer bookcases; the globe that secretly held liquor; the better bed and sturdier desk and large brown boxes of clothes. Matty and Steve chose their new bedrooms; Sylvia and Charlie’s were the two winners, as they always had been bigger than the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. Steve chose Sylvia’s and Matty took Charlie’s, and then they spent the next few days repainting the walls and unpacking their things. Blackbeard nipped at their ankles and grew used to the new places his dog beds sat, the new locations to discover treats.

They had an estate sale and a lady in a suit posted the ad and people came and bought the furniture in Steve’s house; the culmination of both families and what they were throwing away. The night before, Rich and Sylvia and Charlie stopped through, for free furniture and crockery from the kitchen. Strangers bought Steve’s old things without knowing who they used to belong to, and then he put the house on the market without blinking an eye.

“Are you sure you wanna sell?” Bucky asked, as they tried to make Steve’s garden look like Blackbeard hadn’t pissed all over it and browned the grass.

“I don’t live here anymore.”

“But what if—”

“Are you planning on kicking me out?”

“No?”

“Then I don’t need a second house.”

“But down the road—”

“If and when that happens,” Steve said, “I’ll get a new house. It’s served me well, now I can move somewhere new.” Bucky didn’t look convinced and Steve rolled his eyes. “People move houses everyday, Buck.”

“Not when they’ve lived in them for fifty years.”

“Yes, even then.”

The house didn’t officially sell until March, but they had no reason to go back after that. It was hollowed out, empty; the only signs that life had been lived there were the shadows on the walls from the photos, the scrapes on the wooden floors of over-eager dogs and high heels, the note and bottle of champagne Steve had left in the kitchen for the new owners, the words reading _I’ve lived a lot of life in this house. Had a marriage, children, two dogs. I hope you love it here as much as I did._

After that though, Steve Rogers once again lived with Bucky Barnes.

“Full circle,” Bucky said, walking into the living room and passing Steve a beer bottle.

Steve hummed. “Full circle, indeed.”

*

At work, Bucky was welcomed back. He returned the week after coming back from California, five weeks away, and Steve’s house already going up on the market, his things only just beginning to make their way over, to his office stuffed with flowers – some dying or dead by now – and gift baskets. There were small teddies with hearts between their paws and a stack of envelopes on his desk. A helium balloon floated in the corner, reading _MISSING YOU ALREADY,_ that Bucky stared at disdainfully.

“Would’ve thought someone had died,” Bucky muttered, slumping into his desk chair and lifting the first envelope. The card read _WITH SYMPATHY_ on the front and had been signed by a selection of higher-ups in S.H.I.E.L.D. - Bucky figured they’d all come to the wake, actually, and had left a bouquet of flowers there, too.

Sighing, he dropped the card on the pile and made a space on the desk. His open cases had been covered, so he should really be checking on his team and catching up on the meetings he missed. Instead, he stared at the gifts and dead flowers for ten minutes, before there was a knock on the door.

Agent Miller pushed it open. She was about fifty, now, with dyed blonde hair and a new, equally deadbeat husband to match her last one. She just didn’t realise it yet. Bucky had been to the wedding, and Miller had been to Evie’s wake.

She pulled at face when she saw the helium balloon.

“That’s not tasteful,” she said, before looking back to him. “Just here to say hi. I heard you were coming back today. Also heard a rumour that you and Rogers shacked up.”

Bucky groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “Miller, it’s nine in the morning. It’s too early for this.”

“Just, yes or no,” she said breezily, taking a bunch of dead flowers and throwing them in the trash can. “I mean, I’ve been telling people to shut up about it, but Grant in homicide _definitely_ read a listing for Rogers’ house over the weekend, and Rogers, himself, has been entirely silent about the whole thing.”

“Wait, you only heard about it _this morning?_ And there’s already rumours?”

“It’s an office building of spies and secret agents,” Miller said, throwing out the next dead bouquet. “Secrets are so well kept that everyone knows them.”

Bucky sighed through his nose. “So where’s the link between Steve selling his house and us _shacking up_?”

Miller shrugged. “I think Ralph or Gordon in anti-terrorism drove through your neighbourhood and saw the two of you trying to get a bed through the front door.”

Bucky remembered that bed. It spitefully did not want to fit. He grumbled, “Nice of them to lend a hand.”

“So, it’s true?”

He sent her a withering look, and she raised her hands in surrender, clutching a bunch of dead daisies. “We’re friends,” she said. “I’m not looking to stoke some rumour mills or anything. Just interested in how my _decade-long friend_ is doing the wake of his wife’s death.”

“Worse when you mention it,” he replied, then relented. “Steve and his grandson moved in, sure. We already lived around the corner from each other, we see each other every day – it makes financial sense.”

Miller hummed. “Right, financial sense. Sure.”

“Hey, if I hear it got back to _anyone_ —”

“Secret’s safe with me, boss,” she said, then checked her watch. “I’ve got a meeting in five. You mind if I take that balloon with me? My boy’s girlfriend broke up with him and he’s been making a gift basket to try and win her back.” Bucky snorted and side-eyed the _MISSING YOU ALREADY_ balloon.

“It’s all his,” he said.

She snagged the string and started for the door when he stopped her, a sudden idea striking. He had thought about it briefly over the past month, but only now as Miller stood in his office did he think he might have a shot.

“Hey, Miller,” he said. “Do you know how to knit?”

*

In the mornings now, Bucky woke up to the sound of footsteps in the corridor. The blender downstairs running, the morning news from the radio. He woke up to Blackbeard’s paws padding down the stairs, fetching the newspaper and delivering it to the kitchen. He woke up to life in a way he hadn’t in decades.

Steve went running early every morning, regularly taking Blackbeard out with him. Matty got ready for work soon after and drank one of the three smoothies Steve had made before he went out. Bucky might then rise, dress, and eat breakfast, while Steve showered and Blackbeard slumped, worn out, on the kitchen tile under the table. He and Steve left the house before Matty and climbed in the car to drive into the city together.

“I hear they’re moving the HQ to D.C.,” Steve said, one morning in February on the drive.

Bucky scoffed. “Like they could get us to move out of New York.”

*

The first year without Evie was tough.

It was waking up in the morning and discovering himself to be alone. It was slowly, hesitantly, moving her stuff to make way for Matty’s, or Steve’s, or his own. It was Sylvia raiding her mother’s jewellery collection and holding the shiny bits up to the light and saying, “God, she had good taste,” and calling Marcy and Rosie to come over when they could so they could take some too.

Evie was dead, she could no longer make use of them. Just like her clothes, sorely loved and consistently well-maintained, and her shoes, all lined up evenly on the shoe rack in the closet. Some things were easy to give away; her knitting things went to Holly and her romance novels to Marcy. Heather was twenty and had a predilection for rings and necklaces, for vintage dresses to wear to parties. Bucky couldn’t erase Evie from the house, but he didn’t mind having a bit of extra space on the bookshelf, or railing in the closet.

That first year was an adjustment period. It was trying to find the places where Evie fit and deciding how to fill them now she was gone.

She ran the community centre and now it had to find a new manager. She planted all the flowers in the garden and now Steve took that duty upon himself. She taught Holly to knit, and now that was something Bucky would do, instead.

It took a month of Miller spending every lunch break in his office, showing him how to cast on and cast off, what to do when dropping stitches, how to read patterns and make something more than scarves, but then at the end of March, Sylvia brought her daughter over and Bucky taught Holly how to knit, picking up where Evie left off.

Holly was a slow study, recently diagnosed with dyslexia, and had to spend extra time after school catching up with her classmates, but she was dutiful, determined, and came every weekend after that, to sit with Bucky in the living room, or out on the grass when the months grew warmer, her knitting getting better, her projects getting more advanced, and Bucky just made sure he could keep one step ahead of her, asking Miller how to crochet when Holly expressed interest in learning, teaching her the more complicated stitches mere days after he’d learned them himself.

It was only April or May when Bucky remembered that first night in California, Tony’s butler not being able to make the blueberry muffins the way Evie had. He went to the box in the kitchen, a small wooden thing, neatly engraved, and flicked through the recipe cards written in Evie’s cursive hand. Blueberry muffins were near the bottom, and he copied out the recipe, attaching it to a note and posting it in the mail. _Maybe you can’t cook,_ Bucky had written, _but Pepper might be able to. This recipe is the most highly classified thing you’ll ever know—I better not see it on Nigella’s show next month._

It wasn’t at all like Evie had never been there. She was everywhere; she was in his successes and his failings. If Evie had been there, Holly might’ve picked up the knitting quicker – she was a better, softer teacher than he would ever be. If Evie had been there, the summer fête fundraiser might’ve earned more. If Evie had been there, perhaps the year 2000 would’ve been lighter, filled with the kind of joy they struggled to grab hold of, especially when Bucky felt guilty for feeling it without her around.

*

In the fall, the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters moved to Washington D.C. and Bucky and Steve didn’t move with it. Rather, their building became the New York field office, and half the staff upped and left for D.C., away from New York and to the new, larger, sleek and modern office Keller had prepared.

On the last day, Bucky watched people clear out their desks; people from his very own teams, from every floor. They’d downsize, probably, find a smaller building with cheaper rent. They’d block off the panic rooms and secret tunnels, return it to its former glory, and move out like they’d never even been there.

Bucky walked through the bullpens; the open plan offices with tens of young agents, closing cases and writing up their final reports. Many of the New York-specific problems would be handed over to the F.B.I. or C.I.A., and the rest taken with them to the capital.

As he walked the stretch of corridor with mid-level offices on either side, a door opened, and a voice said, “Barnes, can I have a minute?”

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, seeing Nick Fury poking his head out into the hall.

“‘Course, Nick,” Bucky said, just to watch him scowl. Fury did not like being called Nick. It was a bit of a rule. Still, for the time being, Bucky outranked him.

“See, now I don’t trust that you’re you,” Fury huffed, letting Bucky into his office. Fury had tried out a fake eye for a while after the cat scratch ( _Flerken attack_ ) but had settled on an eyepatch. He’d started shaving his head only a year or so before and had quickly risen through the ranks since announcing his Avengers Initiative. Anyone with two eyes—or, er, _one_ eye—could see that Fury was going after Director. Bucky thought if he gave it a few more years, he’d be an excellent one.

Fury had no ties holding him down. The closest family he had was a mother and a sister he rarely saw as it was, and his only pet was Goose the cat, still going strong after all these years. Goose was known for being the only cat in the office; Fury still regularly brought him by. This was the last day in New York, and so the orange tabby alien cat was curled up in his cat bed, staring out the large window at the skyline.

“I’m me,” Bucky said, glancing around the office. The walls were bare and a box filled with possessions sat on the floor, ready to go.

Fury hummed. “You’re gonna need to prove that.”

Bucky huffed, rolling his eyes and crouching down beside Goose to scratch his head. He nuzzled his face into Bucky’s palm. “Goose scratched your eye out because he’s an alien from outer space.” Goose pulled his head back to peer at Bucky, who then cooed, “But he’s the cutest lil’ alien in the whole galaxy,” and that made Goose purr into Bucky’s fingers again.

“Alright, you’re you.”

“Sure am.”

Fury leant against his desk and said, “Thought I might as well say goodbye. Last day and all.”

Bucky rose to his feet and smiled. “It’s been good working with you, Fury.”

“And you, Barnes. I’d also like to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the recommendations. I wouldn’t have my post if you hadn’t stuck your neck out for me so many times.”

Bucky scoffed. “Yes, you would’ve. You would’ve just found someone else to write the letters for you. I’m lucky to have my name attached to yours, Fury—when you succeed, the higher-ups like to go _Didn’t Barnes recommend this guy? What a smart move that was._ ”

Fury laughed, shaking his head. “Well, I hope you’ll keep the faith in me when I make my move for Director, soon.”

“Keller hasn’t even announced his departure yet and you’re already trying to jump in his grave.”

Fury’s smile was shark-like. “Early bird gets the worm.”

“Who were you thinking for your Deputy?”

“You heard of Maria Hill?”

“Scary brunette lady who leads anti-terrorism?”

“That’s the one.”

Bucky nodded. “I think I trained her for a few months when she started out. She got poached and promoted before I could even give her an assessment grade.” Fury looked like he knew this and grinned. “How’d you know she’s not gonna come after Director?”

Fury shrugged. “I imagine she will, one day. Will take it right out from under me if she gets the opportunity. But wouldn’t that make it more exciting?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that,” he said and the two shook hands. “You’ve got my support, though. Pierce is supposed to roll through here soon and I’ll put in a good word if I get the chance.”

Fury thanked him and Bucky said goodbye to Goose before heading out into the corridor. He almost bumped into the scary brunette herself, Maria Hill, who appraised him before stepping aside.

“Barnes,” she greeted.

“Hill,” he replied. “Good luck in D.C.”

She hummed. “Good luck here, and congrats on the promotion.”

He raised his eyebrows. “The promotion?”

Hill cocked her head to the side, her eyebrows pinching together. She had a statuesque face, maybe that was where the scary came from. The sheer height of her cheek bones, the intense blue of her eyes.

“I assume so, at least,” she said. “There’s a _You’re Promoted!_ helium balloon in your office right now, along with Director Keller.”

Bucky blinked. “Why do they always give me helium balloons?”

Hill’s lips quirked up into a surprised grin and she shook her head. “I’ll see you around, Barnes.”

“Enjoy Washington.”

She slipped into Fury’s office as he started back in the direction of his own. For anyone leaving, the day was filled with last minute packing and closing cases. It was a Thursday and the new office opened Monday; they had three days to all move over, en masse, and start again.

For anyone staying, it was a fairly empty day. Bucky had it on good authority – A.K.A. his snooping, an hour earlier – that Steve was spending the day playing paper football with his one remaining staff member. The foreign intelligence department as a whole was moving to D.C., without Steve, and next week he’d be heading up the remaining organised crime department, centred on New York.

Bucky’s offices were hectic with his team leaving, and he wandered through to where, as promised, Keller was waiting behind Bucky’s desk. He looked up when Bucky entered and smiled. Bucky’s gaze was drawn to the _You’re Promoted!_ balloon, bumping against the ceiling.

“Surprise,” Keller said.

Bucky reached out and tugged on the string, the balloon bobbing along, closer to him.

“I’m promoted?”

“That you are, if you’ll accept it.”

“I didn’t apply for a new position.”

“No, but you’re the most qualified person remaining,” Keller replied. “And, besides, I put your name in for it months ago.”

Bucky dropped the string and settled into his seat opposite Keller. “What’s the role?”

“Head of the New York S.H.I.E.L.D. field office.”

Bucky paused. “What?”

Keller laughed. “It’s all yours.”

“You want me to _lead_ the office?”

“Whole building, all the departments, top to bottom. It’s yours.”

“Holy shit,” Bucky said, and Keller grinned.

“You’ve earned it, James,” Keller said. “You’ve been in the agency since forty-six without reprieve. That’s fifty-four years. You’re the longest standing S.H.I.E.L.D. member we’ve got; you should’ve earned a level nine position years ago, probably even ten, but you chose to raise your family instead. It’s respectable. And now your kids are all grown up, and the HQ is moving out to D.C., it’s time.”

“You want me to lead the field office.”

“Level nine position, big fancy office, increased pay and dibs on the top recruits from the academies.”

“Me.”

“You, James.”

Bucky exhaled a breath. “Alright. Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Great,” Keller said, “because I already told everyone you would.”

*

“So, you’re like the overlord now?” Matty asked during dinner that evening.

“I’m the overlord now.”

“And Pops is your—”

“Devoted subject who would die for me, yes,” Bucky confirmed.

Steve hummed. “Does best friend to the overlord get me any perks?”

“You won’t be beheaded for insubordination.”

Steve pulled a face. “That implies my insubordination will be punished in another way.”

“Probably a stockade of some description,” Bucky agreed. “Maybe a stoning.”

“Oh, well in that case,” Steve replied, rolling his eyes. Bucky laughed and Blackbeard barked and Matty fed him some of his chicken, despite Blackbeard having a whole bowl of food, right over there.

“Hey,” Steve said suddenly. “You’re in support of nepotism, right?”

“Sure,” Bucky replied.

“Great, does that mean I can have a big office? Nice view? An aquarium maybe?”

“Since when have you wanted an _aquarium?_ ”

“Since the possibility of a nice new office came up.”

*

On the twenty-eighth of December, 2000, Bucky spent the day quietly, poring over the old photo albums and trying not to cry. Blackbeard was curled up by his side, as if sensing the mood, and Steve made mulled wine and settled on the other side, sipping his slowly and listening to the music from their old phonograph play around and around.

“Some year,” Steve said softly, his fingers digging into the knitted crochet blanket Bucky and Holly had spent the past few months making, square by square. Bucky looked over, dragged his gaze across Steve’s profile, incredibly familiar, and watched. Steve tried for a smile, his eyes stuck on a photo on the opposite wall; Evie Barnes and Peggy Carter at some party they barely even remembered.

Steve said, “I think the next one will be better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! how are we feeling! thank u for reading and pretty please talk to me in the comments! i wanna know all your thoughts, from bucky's promotion, and steve moving in, to side character and possible extra-terrestrial agent miller getting remarried and giving her son a funeral balloon to help him win his girlfriend back.
> 
> the end is coming everybody and none of u are ready for it


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2000-2004

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am Feeling Things about there only being three more chapters left. Feeling THINGS.

“Nice office,” a voice said from the door. Bucky looked up from his desk, to where Peggy Carter stood, smiling and shutting the door behind her. She was eighty years old and looked it, with the grey hair and walking stick by her side. But she was still Peggy. Still tilting her chin up, looking over everything with an air of a monarch surveying their estate.

The estate was Bucky’s corner office; large with two walls dedicated to windows, and another to an extensive bookcase. Everything was chrome-and-glass looking; a new, modern building to go with Bucky’s new position.

He leaned back in his chair with a smile.

“Not as nice as mine, of course,” Peggy continued. “But nice all the same.”

The door had the words _JAMES BARNES_ and _HEAD OF FIELD OFFICE._

He hummed. “Moving up in the world.”

“It’s about time,” Peggy replied. “The world’s been waiting long enough.”

*

It was 2001 when they watched the towers fall from the windows of their building. Steve standing by his side in Bucky’s office, his knuckles white. There was nothing they could do. Just watch. Just wait for news. Just get back to work; send out help where they could.

Steve said, “It never stops.”

Bucky replied, “Sure doesn’t, pal.”

They turned away from the window.

*

In the summer of 2002, Jason announced that he was having a baby, and then Heather got angry, because he’d stolen her thunder as that was the same day _she_ was going to announce that she was engaged.

Bucky blinked three times as they bickered at the dining table.

“ _What?_ ” he asked, cutting through the argument.

Heather, Holly, and their parents sat down one side, while Jason, Julia and their parents sat on the other. Steve was at the opposite end, an eight person table squeezing in ten. They were all as speechless as each other, except Jason and Heather, who apparently were now seething with rage over their special announcements getting ruined.

“I can’t believe you!” Heather huffed. “I _told_ you I was telling everyone about Lucas today!”

“A _baby_ is a bit more pressing than a marriage,” Jason replied. “And besides, I found out _since_ you told me—I’m not just gonna _not_ tell anybody!”

“Lucas?” Sylvia asked.

“Who the hell did you get pregnant?” Charlie questioned.

“You could’ve _said something!_ ” Heather continued. “If you had said, _Hey, Heather, could you tell everyone next weekend as I’ve got a super pressing bastard child to announce—_ ”

“Hey, fuck you,” Jason said. “Where do you get off calling my kid a bastard child—”

“Hey, fuck you both!” Charlie yelled over the mess. “How about we stop swearing in front of the literal child at the table!” He gestured to Holly, fourteen years old and watching with saucer-shaped eyes. She then pouted.

“I’m fourteen! I’m not a child!”

“You still sleep with a nightlight,” Heather said. “That means you’re a baby.”

“Well I know the word _fuck_ so I’m not—”

“ _Holly_ ,” Sylvia warned.

“What? I do!”

“I don’t think that’s relevant right now,” she replied. “I think what’s _relevant_ is _who the hell is Lucas?_ ”

Heather had the decency to look a little bashful. “He’s my boyfriend—or, well, fiancé, now.”

“You don’t have a ring,” Ryan pointed out.

“We’re getting one together next weekend, so I can choose one I like.”

“How long have you been dating?” Steve asked.

“A while now,” Heather replied.

Jason fake coughed. “Two months.”

“Two _months?_ ” Sylvia said. “You’ve known this boy for _two months_ and you’re getting married?”

“I’ve known him longer than two months!” Heather said. “It’s fine! We’re in love!” Jason scoffed and Heather shot a glare at him. “We _are._ That’s more than I can say about you and Jessie.”

“ _Jessie?_ ” Charlie asked. “Like _Jessie Stevens?_ That girl you moved in with last year?”

Jason’s face immediately turned red. “Yeah, that Jessie.”

“I didn’t know you two were dating,” Marcy said.

Julia, at nineteen, smirked. “That’s because they’re _not._ ”

Everyone at the table stared at Jason, who immediately crumbled under their gaze.

“It’s not a big deal!” he cried.

“Not a big deal?” Charlie asked. “You’re having a _baby_ with her! A whole human being! That’s a big deal. In fact, I’d say that’s a _very large extremely important big deal._ ”

Steve said, “More wine anyone?”

Julia raised her hand, as did Holly. Steve rolled his eyes and poured himself another glass. He didn’t pour one for either of the girls.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to marry someone you’ve only been dating two months,” Sylvia said calmly, whilst Jason insisted, “It’s really okay! We’ve talked about it and we’re friends and now there’s just gonna be a baby, too!”

“Do you have the _money_ to raise a baby?” Marcy asked. “They’re not cheap and you’re currently in all that college debt—”

“It’s not like I can just _not_ have a baby if there’s a baby coming,” Jason said.

“Well—”

“That’s not technically accurate—”

“There are doctors for these kind of things—”

“I was thinking a fall wedding—”

“Oh? So, next year? The year after?”

“No, I’m thinking this September—”

“What?”

“Maybe October—”

“Heather—”

“Sweetie—”

“I’m not sure—”

“Are you really—”

Bucky met Steve’s gaze across the table and the two of them shared a look. Steve downed his glass of wine and poured another.

Bucky said, “Maybe next week we should have dinner with your family.”

Steve scoffed. “If Matty’s getting shotgun married to his girlfriend, I don’t wanna know anything about it.”

*

They were watching the news one night and saw Rosie leaving a courthouse. There was a big scene going on in D.C., a big case Bucky had only peripherally been paying attention to. It had been taken to the Supreme Court and Rosie had been drawn for the panel. She was fifty-three years old now, regularly dyeing her hair after finding her first grey a year or two before. The rest was still as blonde as ever, her eyes the same piercing blue he’d always known. She spoke like Peggy Carter; walked like her, too.

She hadn’t been stopped by a reporter to talk about anything but her job for a long time. No one cared anymore that her father was Captain America. Rosemary Hall was her own person.

*

“Your grandad is _ripped_ ,” someone said in the hall. Bucky blinked, the words turning in his head, and then he stepped out of his bedroom to see Matty and his girlfriend standing in the doorway of his room down the hall, Blackbeard rustling around their feet.

“God, I _know_ ,” Matty replied. “How is my eighty-year-old grandfather more jacked than I am?”

“Because he actually exercises,” Bucky commented, leaning against his bedroom door frame. Matty poked his head around to send him a look.

“I exercise,” he said.

“No, you don’t.”

“Do so.”

“Walking the dog doesn’t count.”

Matty’s girlfriend stifled a laugh. Bucky had met her before, but she was unmemorable, somehow. She faded into the background, looked similar to all the other girlfriends Matty had introduced at some point. In 2000, he dated three girls called Amy over the span of six months. Bucky couldn’t tell them apart.

“How’d you get these then?” The Girlfriend asked, poking at Matty’s biceps.

“That’s natural, babe,” he said.

Bucky tried not to retch.

The Girlfriend raised her eyebrows. “Natural?”

“It’s that super soldier blood in me,” he replied, leaning down to hook the leash onto Blackbeard’s collar. “See you later, Buck. We’re gonna take Beardy to the dog park.”

They disappeared down the corridor and once he heard them downstairs, Bucky knocked on Steve’s door. He opened it after the muffled _Come in_ to find Steve standing in front of his dresser, holding a shirt. And therefore not wearing one.

Bucky had known Steve for over seventy years. He had seen him shirtless. And yet, it was a lot like trying to fall out of love with him; every time Bucky was back in his presence, he just started scrambling for his grip. Steve Rogers shirtless was a sight to see every time Bucky saw it.

Broad shoulders; a chest etched with scars, with gunshot wounds and knife marks; the large swath of red and pink that encompassed his left shoulder, a gory napalm burn that never stood a chance at healing. And still, Bucky found himself swallowing, his mouth drying, and he kept his eyes firmly on Steve’s face.

“Did you hear Matty’s girlfriend?” Bucky asked, leaning back against the door frame and crossing his arms as casually as possible. How could he have gone sixty years into nursing this crush, decades into hiding it away and not thinking about it and not having it interfere with his friendship, and then have it rear its ugly head at the mere sight of Steve shirtless? If Bucky could physically fight his attraction to Steve, he would.

“Is this the racist comment or the ripped one?”

“The— _what?_ ” Bucky stuttered. “What did she say?”

“I’m not repeating it,” Steve replied, dumping his t-shirt in the drawer and picking out another. “So, the ripped one?” Bucky rolled his eyes and Steve grinned at him. “She’s not wrong, you know.”

“It’s not like you to have a big head.”

“I got wolf whistled at this morning on my run,” Steve replied easily. “It’s a big ego kind of day.” He pulled on the shirt, stretching his arms above his head as he did so, then tugging the t-shirt down. Bucky was not proud of the way his gaze lingered. “But anyway, Matty’s girlfriend. Rather unbearable if you ask me.”

“I don’t even know her name.”

“Oh, it’s—”

“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Steve let out a bark of laughter, then checked his watch. “At the risk of sounding old, _Antiques Roadshow_ is on in ten minutes.”

Bucky spun and headed back out into the corridor. “You _are_ old. Want a coffee?”

“Sure,” Steve said, following him towards the stairs. “Oh, do you know where the spare VHSes are? I want to tape the Ally McBeal season finale because I’ll be at Rich’s college thing tomorrow night.”

“In the cabinet, I think?” Bucky replied. “Is that his fancy dinner thing?”

“Yeah, something to do with awards and professors and stuff.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Bucky started off to the kitchen while Steve headed for the living room. Bucky made their coffees and carried them in, Steve already on the sofa, his feet on the coffee table. The advertisements played softly as Bucky passed over a mug, settling beside Steve.

“Is Rich up for anything?” Bucky asked.

Steve nodded, taking a sip. He pulled a face when it was too hot and then took another sip anyway. “Can’t remember what. I think Scott might be, too. Oh, you know what he said the other day?”

“What?”

“He’s got a draft for me to look over.”

Bucky frowned, taking a sip of the coffee. It _was_ too hot. “Of what?”

“The Authorised Captain America Biography.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Did you ever agree to that?”

“I didn’t _not_ agree.”

He laughed. “So he’s just been squirreling away your stories—”

“And writing them up, yeah. For like a decade.”

“Is that weird?” Bucky asked. “I can’t tell if that’s weird.”

“Probably just dedicated,” Steve replied. “Also he’s been with Rich for like…? Thirteen years now? So I can’t very well tell my son-in-law that I _don’t_ want him writing a biography, can I?”

Bucky snickered and snagged the remote as the _Antiques Roadshow_ theme started. He turned the volume up on it. “So you’re gonna let him publish it?”

“If it’s accurate, sure,” Steve replied. “Might even provide some old photos for him, too.”

Bucky hummed. “A thousand inaccurate biographies aren’t enough for you?”

“We can’t all have our children write Pulitzer Prize-winning articles about our lives.”

Bucky grinned. “I guess not,” he replied, eyeing the wall where the photo sat of Charlie, some twenty years ago, with his Pulitzer. Bucky had read _My Father, The Super Soldier_ a hundred times. He’d locked it away under the study floorboards and had another copy on the coffee table for months. Guests would see the open article, see Charlie’s name, and go _Oh, that was your boy?_

Bucky looked back to the television, where the first item was being introduced. Beside him, Steve sipped at his coffee, feet propped up ahead of him, and watched.

It was a quiet Sunday morning, and they spent it together.

*

The draft of The Authorised Captain America Biography by Scott Watson was sat on the desk in the study two days later. Bucky peered at it briefly in the morning before work, as he ate cereal and waited for Steve to get dressed. Blackbeard shuffled around his feet, nudging his head into Bucky’s shins, and Bucky leant down, absently, to scratch behind his ears.

The draft was a large stack of papers, bound together on one side with string and tags. It was untitled, officially, despite the decade of effort.

Bucky set down his bowl and flipped open the first page.

_On a November day in 1996:_

**_SCOTT WATSON, BIOGRAPHER:_ ** _It’d probably be cliché to start with your birth. Probably even more so to start with the birth of Captain America._

**_STEVE ROGERS, CAPTAIN AMERICA:_ ** _[Laughs] Start with someone else’s birth, then._

**_SCOTT WATSON:_ ** _Who’s?_

**_STEVE ROGERS:_ ** _The only person who matters. Start with Bucky’s._

Bucky swallowed, slowing. He flipped the page.

**_CHAPTER 1: THE ONLY PERSON WHO MATTERS_ **

****

_A year and a half before there was even a Steve Rogers in the world, there was a Bucky Barnes. Fitting, probably, as a Steve could not exist without a Bucky, even before they knew each other._

_Captain America couldn’t exist without Bucky Barnes, either, as if it hadn’t been for the relationship they forged as children, the day Barnes caught the fist of the older boy beating up a seven-year-old Rogers in an alley in Brooklyn, Captain America would’ve remained nothing more than a billion-dollar show act; a wasted experiment singing and dancing his way across America as he persuaded the public to donate money for the troops’ bullets._

_If it weren’t for the 107 th being captured in Italy, Bucky Barnes among them, we could only imagine how the world would differ. If the allies would’ve won the war, if Captain America would’ve ever seen combat, if fascism would’ve continued its upward trend. But the 107th _was _captured, and Bucky Barnes_ was _reported missing in action._

_And what is a Steve without a Bucky?_

_What is Captain America without his best friend?_

_I hope the world will never know._

*

It was harder, somehow, to love Steve when living beside him again, under the same roof, eating from the same dishes; sharing every meal and moment side by side. It wasn’t bad, but it was harder – because those carefully drowned and smothered and hidden-away feelings weren’t staying back anymore. They were clawing their way back to the surface, dragging Bucky’s eyes to Steve’s bare torso whenever he walked around without a shirt, making Bucky’s mouth dry and his heart thud. He’d gone so long with the feelings on the back burner, but it was like they were forcing their way forward now, demanding to be seen, to be known and felt.

They pressed at his rib cage whenever Steve laughed. Squeezed on his heart at even the smallest of smiles.

Bucky was aching from it, his chest sore and soul yearning.

He’d gone back to the draft after work. He hadn’t gotten far that morning, as Steve had come thundering down the stairs, but that evening he came back, only to find it missing from the study desk. He’d frowned and searched for it and Steve, only to find them both holed up in his room. When Bucky had made the excuse of asking Steve if he wanted a drink to peer inside, Steve was sat on his bed, the draft held close to him, perched on his lap, knees pulled up. He looked protective, suddenly, of what he was reading, as if he didn’t want anyone else to see it, and Bucky left wondering why.

*

Heather’s wedding day was sunny, despite it being mid-October and the entire week pegged for rain. She’d chosen a church in Brooklyn, and everyone had taken the weekend to celebrate. Rosie and Jacob had travelled up from D.C., Peggy and Daniel from the same place.

He greeted Peggy warmly before the ceremony, shaking Daniel’s hand, too.

“You must be excited,” she said with a smile. “The first grandchild getting married.”

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, but no one was nearby. Still, he said, low, “They’ve known each other for five months. I don’t even think Lucas knows her middle name.”

Peggy’s eyebrows rose. “Are they getting married for… you know?” Peggy made a gesture to her stomach and Bucky snorted.

“She’d be showing by now if they were,” he replied. “They say it’s true love.”

“Maybe it is.”

Bucky shrugged. “Either way, Sylvie and Ryan had to fork out for half of today.”

“You’re very pessimistic,” Peggy noted. “You should try changing that for your first grandchild’s wedding.” Bucky rolled his eyes, good-natured, and Peggy continued, “I’d love to see Jason’s girlfriend, though.”

“He doesn’t have a girlfriend,” Bucky replied. “That’s what’s giving Marcy a conniption.”

Peggy said, “That’s very… modern.”

“She’s due in late February,” Bucky told her. “First great-grandchild. Ain’t that terrifying?”

Peggy smiled and patted his cheek warmly. “Get used to it, dear.”

The church filled up quickly after that. Lucas King’s family was large and rowdy, but so was Bucky’s. They chattered and their voices echoed around the high, domed ceilings, across the altar and towards the choir stands. The priest waited idly, talking to the best man, as the hour drew close. Lucas darted off for the bathroom and someone made a joke about leaving Heather at the altar. There was a lot of laughter from the groom’s side of the room.

As the clock struck one p.m., Bucky moved to where his oldest granddaughter stood at the far end of the aisle, her dress long and white – princess style, she insisted on informing him. She’d considered being walked down the aisle by a number of people; Sylvia, Ryan, Charlie. She’d thrown out Mark’s name, her biological father, for only a moment before it was resoundingly shot down. He was at the wedding, though; he’d had a hesitant role in her life, loving her from the start but not trusted with taking her for whole weekends, or even having a room for her to sleep in. His rage was not the kind Sylvia would risk Heather taking the brunt of. But he had remarried, borne other children, not one even vaguely resembling Heather or her mother; tell-tale signs of regular mortality.

In the end, she chose Bucky, for a number of reasons she didn’t tell him about, but he guessed because he’d been there from beginning to end, and because Sylvia would be too busy crying, despite all her previous grumbling, to actually walk her the whole way.

Bucky pressed a kiss into Heather’s cheek and matched her grin despite himself. Her bridesmaids, made up of Holly, Julia, and a number of friends, trailed out behind her, in matching pastel pink dresses.

“You ready to go?” Bucky asked, squeezing her hand in his.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Heather replied. She bounced on her feet for a moment, excitement winding through her. They were supposed to start on the hour, and exactly on time, the organ began the wedding march, a loud, echoing melody.

“Um?” Heather frowned as the crowd moved to their feet. “Where is he?”

Bucky peered down the aisle. Lucas’ best man was still waiting, and the priest seemed to be asking the same question.

“He went to the bathroom a few minutes ago,” Bucky said. “He must not be back yet.”

“Then I can’t—I can’t go down until he’s there,” Heather replied. “That defeats the whole point.”

The organ tune played the whole way through before the organist seemed to realise no one had moved. The audience waited, looking up and down the aisle. Steve, at the front, poked his head into view, a furrow between his brows. That very morning, Bucky had actively shoved down and swallowed whatever feelings he had about Steve in a suit. He’d seen it a thousand times before and yet it still caught him off guard.

Heather, her hand in the crook of Bucky’s elbow, tugged on his arm. “Do we just wait?”

“I guess so?” Bucky replied, though there was a sinking feeling in his gut.

Everyone was still staring, waiting. The best man was looking around at the other end of the aisle, concern etched onto his face. He seemed to say something to the people on Lucas’ side of the room, too quiet for Bucky to hear, before hustling off in the direction of the bathrooms.

Behind Bucky, Holly whispered, “What’s happening?”

Julia replied, “I think Heather’s boyfriend just broke up with her.”

“ _What?_ ” Holly replied, taking it immediately to heart. “How is he doing that?”

“By cheating out on the wedding,” Julia replied. “Easiest way to break up with someone is to just run and hope they get the message.” She hummed. “I hope Aunt Sylvia makes Lucas’ parents reimburse them for their half of the wedding.”

“Shut up,” Bucky hissed over his shoulder. Beside him, Heather was stone-faced, shaking. Her jaw was locked tight, her eyes glued dead ahead. Bucky had a feeling that if this went on much longer, she’d cry.

Luckily, or unluckily, depending how you looked at it, that was the moment the best man jogged back in, and to the front.

“Uh, if everyone would sit down for a moment?” the best man called. There was muttering, and the audience sat slowly, in chunks. Heather shook. Her fingers dug tight into Bucky’s arm. “I think I’m gonna have to be the bearer of bad news, as I can’t… find Lucas. There’s a back door out in the hall? And his car’s gone. So.” The best man rocked back on his heels.

As if they all had the same thought, the audience turned, little by little, to look at Heather, with her jaw locked and eyes welling and hand shaking against Bucky.

“Papa?” she breathed, barely, using a name she hadn’t called him as since she was little.

“Yeah, kiddo?” Bucky replied in a whisper.

“Can you take me home?”

Bucky rolled his lower lip. “Sure thing.”

She sniffed, and he stepped back, tugging her around slowly. The bridesmaids parted and made way for her, Heather’s large, princess dress brushing across them as they started back out the front doors, and onto the paved pathway.

Almost immediately, as the sunlight hit her face, Heather burst into tears.

Bucky stretched his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close, pressing a kiss against the crown of her head. She held onto him tight, diluted super soldier strength wringing the life from him.

He didn’t complain, just led her to his car, and opened the door for her. At the door of the church, the bridesmaids had congregated to watch, and a few family members pushed their way through; Sylvia and Ryan, Steve and Charlie. Heather just climbed in the passenger seat of his car, the black work Audi S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him, and squashed the layers of tulle and fabric into the footwell.

Bucky shut the door and glanced back at the others. Steve stepped forward, like maybe he could help, before thinking better of it. Bucky drove Heather home.

*

Heather and Lucas had moved in together in their second week of dating, and so three days after the wedding, during which Lucas was conspicuously absent, Heather moved into the spare guest room at the end of the hall in Bucky and Steve’s house. Her things got piled into her room and were spread across the communal areas and down the hall. She watched tear-jerking movies all day and night, ate them out of ice cream, cried them out of tissues, and spent all night on the phone, telling her friends the sad, sad story again and again.

She asked if it was legal for Bucky to murder Lucas King because he was a government worker. He said it was not. She asked if he would do it anyway, and Bucky replied that the most he would do was _maybe_ key his car. Steve then suggested slashing his tyres, while Matty said that a plain ass-kicking would do the job fine.

In the end, Bucky and Steve simply paid him a visit and left.

They did not tell anyone what happened during that visit, and Lucas wouldn’t either.

Afterwards, Steve said, “Just as unbearable as Matty’s ex-girlfriend.”

Bucky, in the driver’s seat, replied, “Just a shame I had to learn his name.”

*

Then, on March 2nd  2003, the day before Bucky’s birthday, Jason’s son was born. His not-girlfriend, Jessie Stevens, spent seven hours in labour, before pushing out a baby that Jason announced upon seeing, “Oh, yeah, that’s a super soldier baby alright.”

“He’s fucking _massive_ ,” Jessie apparently replied.

Jack Barnes-Stevens was born, and the cycle began again.

*

Life, Bucky had noticed, was a cyclical thing. There were always children meeting each other on playgrounds, growing up and having children that met each other on playgrounds once again. Bucky had twins who had children who had babies. There were wars, there were deaths, there were new weapons – and eventually there came a time when Bucky and Steve had to admit that they couldn’t solve them all.

Two men in a government field office couldn’t stop the war in the Middle East, even if their classification was high enough to know the truth behind it, and the report had been half-authorised by their very own agency. The towers had happened in Bucky’s jurisdiction and still he couldn’t change the outcome.

He knew he would see other attacks, though. Because life went around and around and it would all happen again. There would be more days and more heartache and more ends, as much as there would be more beginnings and birth and love.

Presidents came and went like clockwork, though the UK’s Queen was the same one he’d met during the war, and he had a sneaking suspicion she would be the same one on the throne by the time he finally kicked it.

And there was Steve, cycling with him, watching the loops, watching the clock tick around. He could see it, too. Could see it in Jack, in the way he grew with Bucky’s eyes and Bucky’s hair and Bucky’s ability to be stronger than he seemed. Could see it in Matty, in the way he grew with Steve’s eyes and Steve’s hair and Steve’s ability to get into fights that didn’t concern him.

Could see it in the flowers blooming, the frost laying, the sun journeying across the sky again and again and again. They were looping, they were on-going, the end of the line never fulling reaching because time wasn’t just going to stop, and so the line would keep travelling, spiralling onwards.

They had another hundred years of life to go, if Dr. Erksine had been right.

Matty got a better job and a better girlfriend, he considered moving out but thought better of it, because Bucky and Steve had the big garden and home-cooked meals. Heather got a promotion and a better boyfriend, considered moving out and then did, almost a year after her wedding, to a high-rise apartment building with panoramic windows. She was a fashion journalist and newly-appointed editor, a far cry from the presidential position Bucky had assumed she’d go after.

Steve worked and Bucky worked and they carpooled to the office everyday. They met at lunch sometimes, read each other’s reports sometimes, authorised missions sometimes. They did what they could and then they went home for dinner every night, never staying late unless vital, learning a lesson that had been taught again and again, over a long and tense marriage, and sometimes they returned to find that Matty had taken it upon himself to cook for them, but more often than not, they’d manoeuvre around each other like it was a given, something they’d done a thousand times before and would do a thousand times again, because life was cyclical that way, and Bucky and Steve never stopped circling each other.

*

Bucky asked, “How’s the biography coming?” in the spring of 2004.

“Mm, got a lot to do,” Scott replied. “Steve’s last notes were helpful; there were a lot of inconsistencies in the stories of the war, and also of Vietnam, I guess.”

Bucky hummed. “He went because he thought it was his responsibility to, and then he got stuck in a napalm crossfire, was reported dead, and then he came home.”

“Yeah, that about covers it,” Scott replied. He dried a dish from the rack as Bucky washed up the pots from lunch. “You never told me what you thought of it, though?”

“Hm? I haven’t read it.”

Scott paused. “Why not?”

It had been a year and a half since the day the draft vanished from the study. A year and a half since he read the first two pages before flipping it shut hastily and acting like he hadn’t seen it.

“Steve hasn’t shown it to me,” Bucky replied evenly, carefully. He was aware that Steve was only in the next room, chatting with Rich on the sofas. He still thought about the words sometimes, the inherent attachment in _What is a Steve without a Bucky?_

“Oh,” Scott replied. “Oh, I guess…”

“What?”

“Well, Steve was kind of squirrelly about parts of it. I couldn’t really figure why, but—”

Bucky frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve really read none of it?” Scott asked. “At all?”

Bucky kept his gaze firmly on his hands, scrubbing the pot clean. “The first two pages,” he said. “I think I read them before Steve did.”

“So, you know—”

“The first chapter’s about me, right?”

“Yeah, it was—it was Steve’s idea. There’s no point beginning with Steve if the story actually starts with you.” Bucky nodded slowly. “He didn’t really want to talk about that part, though. I thought I’d done something wrong with it, so I asked, and he said it was fine. Rich thinks he’s worried about people getting ideas.”

“What kind of ideas?”

“I guess there’s a… There’s a small subsection of Cap historians who think that you and he…” Scott trailed off, pulling a face like Bucky would connect the dots. It took him a moment and then he did.

“Oh! Oh, you mean—”

“Yeah, yes. It’s a strong connection, that many see in a very, uh, platonic, brotherly light, and others wonder if there was something… else there.”

“And Rich thinks—”

“That maybe my draft seems to cater to that idea a slight bit.”

Bucky swallowed. “Does it?”

“Oh, um. I’m not sure, honestly. It wasn’t the angle I was aiming for, and it’s a biography, not an academic work, so it needs to rely on Steve’s versions of events, rather than… personal interpretation.”

Bucky paused the washing and eyed Scott carefully. He looked similar to how he did when they first met; dark skin, dark eyes, a shaved head. He wore nicer clothes now, with the money that came from tenure and being head of the department, but he was still very much the person Bucky met in Rich’s old, shitty apartment. He was trustworthy, and honest, and genuinely cared about his work and the stories that were memorialised from the war.

“What’s your interpretation?” Bucky asked.

Scott then hesitated, as if he was searching for the answer Bucky was looking for in the way Bucky watched him. He said, “It’s a… strong bond. You’ve known each other for over seventy years.”

“Right. And?”

“And…” Scott pulled a face and tipped his head back, like he was looking for the words to say on the ceiling. “I’m not trying to offend you, Buck—”

“I won’t be offended by anything you have to say.”

Scott didn’t seem to believe this, but he still said, slowly, “When I was interviewing Steve about you, I got that feeling that maybe there was… something more there.”

“Something more.”

“Yes. I may be—I may be wrong. Of course, I likely am. But it just seemed as if you two have always had a very… intimate relationship. Very close. Rich… Rich agreed, I guess, when I asked him about it. But then, when I wrote it that way, Steve acted… odd? Like he was surprised I had said as much.”

Bucky nodded. He took a long breath, the words rolling around his head.

He asked, “When did you interview him about me?”

“Oh, um. A number of times. ‘94, ‘95, ‘96. Once back in 2000, too, I think.”

“Alright,” Bucky replied and went back to washing.

It was a moment later, when Rich and Steve entered the room, that he looked up and met Steve’s gaze, already trained on him, and thought, clearly, suddenly, _He heard the whole damn thing._

Then: _Well, it’s now or never, I guess._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehehehehehehehhehehhehe


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2004

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you understand the pressure of writing a sixteen chapter, 81 thousand word, build up to a relationship??? do you understand the FEAR i am feeling????
> 
> we are here. thank you for sticking around this long.

Bucky watched from the doorway as Scott and Rich climbed into their car and started off home. He waited until they turned a corner and vanished from sight. Somewhere behind him, Steve was idling in the foyer.

The house, for once, was empty; just the two of them. Matty was out with his girlfriend, the dog with him, and there was nothing playing; no television or radio or phonograph in the living room. Just the silence, the two of them, the truth of a conversation that Bucky had shared and Steve had overheard.

As Bucky shut the door, he thought, _We could pretend it never happened._

But then he immediately thought, _No. That’s what we did with everything else._

With the Grand Canyon, with Bucky’s feelings. There were yearly Pride parades that they never spoke of. Rich’s gayness was never alluded to in the same sentence as Bucky’s bisexuality. He never even _informed_ Steve that he’d found a word for what he was, just in case it brought back the moment they had buried together in the yellow dirt of the canyon.

Now, they looked at each other, the foyer spread out between them.

Steve said, “You want a coffee?”

Bucky replied, “Can I read the draft of Scott’s book?”

Steve pressed his lips into a line.

“If he publishes it,” Bucky continued, “I’ll see it anyway.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed. “You would.” He sniffed, swung his hands, glanced around the foyer; there was a large painting of his on one wall, beside the door, a mirror on the opposite side, reflecting the faces of the Howling Commandos in oil. He asked, “Did you really read the first chapter?”

“No,” Bucky replied. “Just the first few pages.”

Steve hummed. “I… um. You know...” He sighed through his nose and fell silent, searching for the words.

Bucky, however, who had waited since he was fifteen years old to be able to talk about _It_ – which was what the conversation was about, really – and waited twenty since the Grand Canyon to be able to acknowledge the situation again, wasn’t going to wade through unpleasant silences and minced words to get to the point.

“Why do you not want to talk about this?” Bucky asked.

Steve’s eyes shot up to his, that familiar blue intensity locking onto his gaze. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it…”

“Are you embarrassed or something?” Bucky continued. The twitch in Steve’s face told him he was right. “You remember when I asked you to move in here?” Steve nodded. “You remember how I said I didn’t want to ask because it’s more embarrassing if you said no? And how you promised you wouldn’t? It’s like that. I’m not gonna react badly, I swear on Evie’s collection of awful bunny rabbit ornaments that I can’t bring myself to throw out.”

Steve’s lips quirked up, just barely. Then he scrubbed his hands across his face and moaned into them.

“Do you ever think about—about what happened? After my divorce?” Steve asked, dropping his hands. “At the Grand Canyon?”

Bucky almost laughed, but he promised he wouldn’t, so he said, “Yeah. Sometimes.”

Steve nodded. “You really—you really loved Evie, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did.”

“And you… you still liked men anyway?”

Bucky swallowed and nodded. “It’s called—it’s called bisexuality,” Bucky said. “I found the word for it a few years ago. It’s a, uh, pretty common thing.”

Steve nodded, slow. “Right. Right. I think about the Grand Canyon sometimes. Especially since—since Rich came out. And I think about what I should’ve said. What I did wrong. I didn’t _know_ anything back then, about all this, I didn’t know how to make you feel—okay. Like I wasn’t judging you. I should’ve done better.”

“Steve—”

“I got that chance with Rich, I guess, and I still feel like I fucked it up, somehow. It took _four years_ for him to tell me about Scott. Did I—did I create a family where he didn’t feel like love was always a given? That it was… _dependant_ on him being with a woman?” Steve shook his head. “He trusted you before he trusted me—and don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful for that. If he had told me in the eighties, I would’ve still messed up all my words. But he went to you—”

“He remembered Evie and I protesting in support of legalising homosexuality.”

Steve stared for a moment and then nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “For looking after him. For loving him when he didn’t know if the rest of us would.” Steve sniffed, conflicting feelings battling it out across his face. “I’m glad at least one of his parents could be there for him.”

Bucky slowed. “Steve.”

“You know when Rosie was, was about yea high,” he said, gesturing to his thigh with a hand, “her teacher called us in for a meeting? Peggy couldn’t go, of course, but I went in, and this teacher showed me Rosie’s drawing of her family. Of course she had four parents on hers. Mommy, Daddy, Daddy Bucky and Mommy Evie.” Steve laughed, just a little. “The babies were there, too. All her siblings. I don’t know why I never told you that. I don’t know why I kept that from you. They’re yours as much as they’re mine.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but Steve shook his head, cutting him off. “Can I get this out? I think I’ve been repressing so much for so long that—that it’s all jumbled up. I was talking about you—about the canyon.” He took a breath and shoved a hand back through his hair.

“I was—I was terrified because I didn’t know what it meant. But it was—it’s _you_ , Buck. I wouldn’t ever turn my back on you. And then I think I pushed you away for a bit, because you had Evie, and she was the one you should’ve been with. And I guess I… I didn’t want anything to change. Which—for two guys living two hundred years, there’s gonna be a lot of change. Hell, just thinking about how much we _have_ changed, how much we will in the future…” Steve shook his head. He shuffled towards Bucky by about a foot, then looked like he was thinking better of it. He bit down on his lower lip, and for a moment, he looked utterly lost. Adrift in an ocean of feelings he’d never let surface.

“I want a coffee,” Bucky said abruptly. “Do you want a coffee?”

Steve blinked in surprise and then nodded.

“Come on, then.” Bucky started off to the kitchen and Steve followed behind, his footsteps light and hesitant. They didn’t speak as Bucky made the coffee, filled the mugs and then nudged one down the counter to Steve. They stood there for a moment, holding the mugs in their hands, overly hot and burning at their palms.

Steve continued, “Remember Maria Rambeau’s house?”

“Yeah?”

“She had all these photos of the three of them—her and Carol and her daughter. And I remember looking at them before we went up in that ship, and thinking, _Oh, they’re like us._ Best friends raising kids together. These two people, they’re the same as us. They’re even _Captains._ ”

“I never got Captain,” Bucky pointed out.

“You’re missing the point.”

“Sure. Sorry.”

“Then after, when they… when they kissed, and they weren’t best friends raising kids together, they were in love and that was their daughter, and…” he trailed off, squeezing the mug so tight his knuckles were whitening.

“And?” Bucky prompted, feeling his heart thud and his stomach turn. His entire body felt alive with nerves.

“And I was still thinking, _They’re like us.”_

Bucky stopped breathing. Steve met his gaze.

“I think it took me,” Steve continued, slow, placing his mug down on the counter, “a ridiculously long time to figure that out.”

Bucky placed his mug down, too, feeling as if he might drop it. “To figure out…”

“To figure out that I’m in love with you.”

Bucky froze, hand pressed hard against the countertop. Neither of them moved. Then Steve asked, “Is that okay?”

Bucky forced in a breath. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s more than okay.”

It was like the whole neighbourhood had drawn in a breath and gone silent. There was nothing other than them and this moment.

“Okay,” Steve whispered, and started forward, surging up to Bucky and kissing him hard.

Steve’s hands were at Bucky’s face, and Bucky grabbed at Steve’s sides, slipping a hand around to his back and pulling him in tight against him. Steve’s mouth was warm and willing and driving; stirring the feelings in Bucky’s gut. Bucky moaned into the kiss, everything else dropping away, like the dripping of the coffee machine and the counter, pressing uncomfortably into the small of his back.

It was just the two of them. It was only ever just the two of them.

Bucky was breathing heavily by the time Steve slowed, pressing softer, languid kisses against Bucky’s mouth. He almost pulled away once, but Bucky followed, eighty-six with seventy-one years of waiting, not wanting this moment to end. His hand slipped under Steve’s shirt, fingers pressing against the warmth of the skin at Steve’s ribs.

They separated, touching everywhere except their mouths; foreheads pressed together and just breathing. Bucky’s eyes opened, and he saw the red of Steve’s mouth, the swollen bruising that surely matched his own. Then, Steve’s eyes, already watching him, blue like every inch of sky on every day they’d ever spent together. Bucky kissed him again, once, letting reality sink into his bones.

“I’m in love with you,” Bucky said. “I have _been_ in love with you. I have lived my whole life loving you.”

Steve’s eyes flickered as he studied Bucky’s face, and then he said, “I’m sorry I took so long,” his voice a hoarse whisper.

Bucky’s lips quirked upwards. “You always were the slow one of the two of us.”

Steve’s laugh was breathy. He replied, “I can speed up, if you’d like.”

“No,” Bucky replied. “Slow’s okay. Slow’s perfect.”

When Steve kissed him again, it was soft and slow, pressed so close together that Bucky could feel Steve against him the whole way down his torso, Steve’s thigh wedged between his. Their hands moved and wandered and explored; planes of hidden skin and soft, etched scars.

Bucky would’ve given anything to remain in that moment for the next hundred years of his life. He would’ve given anything at all.

*

They ended up sat on the kitchen floor, nursing their coffees, their backs pressed against the kitchen cabinets. All of Bucky’s right side was pressed up against all of Steve’s left, like they were one being, connected, together.

They sat quietly, sipping their lukewarm drinks, when Bucky realised, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Hm?” Steve asked, glancing over. Now Bucky _knew_ , he could see the difference in Steve’s gaze, like it was softer, somehow, just for him. Had Bucky just not noticed it before? Never considered it to ever be a possibility? Or had Steve so successfully hidden his feelings that it had been pushed down, like everything else.

“The draft of the biography,” Bucky replied. “Why didn’t you want me to read it?”

Steve sighed through his nose and sipped at his coffee. Then he tilted his head back against the cabinet. “It was too obvious,” he said. “Anyone who read it would know how I felt about you.” Bucky raised his eyebrows. “It was basically printed in giant, capital letters: _STEVE ROGERS LOVES BUCKY BARNES._ ”

Bucky scoffed and there was something new in the way that Steve smiled at that. There was something new in everything today.

“I wasn’t ready to admit that,” Steve said.

“Are you ready now?”

Steve shrugged. “I hope so. I’ve kinda jumped in the deep end, if not.”

Bucky grinned at him, and pressed forward, kissing Steve and laughing when Steve smiled into it. He’d thought it would be different to kiss a man, but it wasn’t, not really. Steve kissed differently to Evie, and there was the faint scratch of stubble, but it was all the same. It was still mouths and hands and moaning. It was still someone he loved.

They pulled apart, suddenly, when they heard the front door open, Matty’s voice ringing through the foyer. Bucky pressed the back of his hand into his mouth, as if wiping away the secret of what they’d done, and the two of them looked up in tandem as Matty appeared in the kitchen doorway, his current girlfriend bending down to unhook Blackbeard’s lead.

“Hey,” Matty said, as Blackbeard jumped up and raced over. Bucky had to lift his mug away to avoid spilling the rest of the coffee as the dog came to greet them.

“Hey, buddy,” Bucky said to Blackbeard, as Steve greeted Matty.

“Good walk?” he asked.

“As you’d expect. Why are you on the floor?”

Steve shrugged. “We’re old. Bucky fell and couldn’t get back up, so I thought I’d sit with him until help came.”

Matty rolled his eyes with a laugh. Bucky cringed as Blackbeard licked at his face and then responded with a kiss to the top of the dog’s head.

“Whatever, Pops,” Matty said. “Yell for me if you actually do need help getting up.” He and his girlfriend started up the stairs, and Blackbeard flopped over into Steve’s lap, well worn out.

Steve stroked at Blackbeard’s ear, making the dog’s tail wag wildly.

Bucky watched, a soft smile on his face.

“Is it bad,” Steve said, his voice particularly quiet, “that we hid it?”

Bucky paused. He’d tried to wipe the kiss away and Steve had flat-out lied. After a moment, he shook his head.

“I don’t think anyone would blame us for keeping it to ourselves,” he decided. “We can take it slow, like I said, and figure out how we want to be when we’re together.”

Steve’s smile was like the sun. Had Bucky ever noticed that before? Bucky couldn’t help but lift his free hand to Steve’s face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. He could do that now. He could do all the things he hadn’t let himself for seventy years. He could love Steve Rogers, and it wouldn’t be a sin, or a sickness, or a destructive force of nature. He could love Steve and let it be joyful, and soft, and good.

“Is that what we are?” Steve asked. “Together?”

Bucky exhaled a smile. “If you want to be,” he said. “I’ve waited my whole life for you, Stevie. I want to be everything with you.”

“I want to be, too,” Steve replied, and Bucky kissed him again, because he could, because he’d waited, because there was nothing stopping him anymore. It was just him and Steve; circling each other for a lifetime and finally coming together. Steve broke the kiss to say, “Matty’s upstairs, we—”

“We’ll be quiet then,” Bucky replied.

“Quiet,” Steve repeated, kissing him shortly. “You are the least quiet person I’ve ever met.”

“I resent that,” Bucky said in a whisper. “Do you not remember yourself at seven years old, yelling at me on the playground?”

Steve smiled into Bucky’s mouth in the next kiss. “That was deserved, you girl-stealing jerk.”

“That I am,” Bucky replied. “But you love me anyway.”

“Yeah,” Steve breathed. “I do.”

*

Things changed after that. Bucky had expected them to, but he hadn’t foreseen how.

He’d thought, in one of the quiet moments over the years when he’d imagined kissing Steve and Steve kissing back and how that might go, that they would then be happy and carefree. That they would instantly slip into those new roles; that they would end up wound around each other in bed, young and in love; kissing the other soundly when they had to drag themselves away to go to work.

But it wasn’t like that.

They didn’t sleep in the same room, and couldn’t, in case Matty saw. They couldn’t kiss or hold hands when they knew he might see. There were no lounging mornings in bed or making each other late for work; Steve still went on his morning run, Bucky still drank the smoothie he’d leave out for him, they’d still drive into work together. Now, because they were alone, maybe they’d talk a little different, maybe the person in the passenger seat would slip their hand over the driver’s on the gearstick.

So the big things hadn’t changed, not immediately at least. Not in the first few weeks after they kissed in the spring of 2004. It was the small things, instead.

It was that somehow, with this new knowledge and these new feelings and new ways they were looking at each other, the parts of their lives that were familiar and natural changed.

Cooking together was different. As was running through the park. Walking the dog. Handing each other drinks and their fingertips brushing. Grocery shopping, now that they were… _together_ felt different. Felt somehow more substantial. Felt somehow more awkward.

They bumped into each other in the kitchen more often, so aware of each other now that what used to be an easy manoeuvre became jilted, confusing. They careened between wanting to be close to each other on walks; wanting to swing their hands between them, and not wanting it to be obvious, to be identifiable.

Bucky suddenly worried that Steve was watching now; was paying attention to him in a way that he didn’t used to.

Their conversations, too, were nerve-wracking. Like he could say the wrong thing and mess it all up. Like they had to be injected with some kind of romance, to make them sound less platonic, less how they used to.

They had said they’d go slow, that they’d keep it to themselves to figure it out before mentioning it to anyone – before, more likely, having a dinner with the whole family and announcing it the way Rosie would a new job position or move. But it was that decision that made them jumpy, paranoid.

Could Matty hear them kissing behind Steve’s bedroom door? Could his girlfriend see the way their gazes lingered on each other now? Did other drivers notice their hands linked over the centre console, or could other people in the park tell that the men jogging beside each other were an item? Where Bucky might’ve usually tossed his feet up onto the sofa, pressing against Steve’s thighs or onto his lap entirely, he hesitated, and maybe that hesitation was more obvious than the act itself.

Where Steve might’ve once thrown his arm around Bucky’s shoulders in the grocery store when he laughed, pulling him down a particular aisle, he swung, landed, and then dropped his arm fast, in case anyone noticed.

Not to mention the way Bucky looked at Evie’s photos on the wall now, four years dead, and wondered what she would’ve thought. If she would’ve been okay with Bucky falling in love with someone else in the house she’d lived in for fifty years.

*

It was two weeks after the kiss, a Sunday evening, when Bucky’s bedroom door opened and Steve slipped inside. Bucky blinked up from the case file he was reading by the light of the lamp.

“You alright?” he asked.

Steve nodded. Without preamble, he climbed onto the bed and pressed a kiss against Bucky’s mouth. After a moment, he deepened it, slipping the files off Bucky’s lap as he went. Bucky sighed into it, into Steve, like they were the only two people in the world. Then he remembered they weren’t and jerked back.

“Steve,” he said. “Matty might hear.”

Steve’s lips curled into a smile. “ _Matty_ is staying at his girlfriend’s place tonight. He just left.”

Bucky hesitated and listened out. True to the story, the only other sound in the house was Blackbeard padding around the living room downstairs. Bucky’s eyes widened just a bit at the thought: it was the first night they’d been together in an empty house.

Steve, as if seeing the realisation clock in Bucky’s mind, grinned and swept back in. Bucky let himself sink into it, enjoy it. This was something that hadn’t been a hardship; a newness he’d been excited for, had invested himself in at every opportunity. And Steve, it turned out, liked kissing.

When they were alone, Steve kissed Bucky at every opportunity, as if making up for lost time. In the morning, on the way to his shower, or at work, the only people in the bathrooms.

Now he slipped a hand under Bucky’s shirt, pressing a knee in the space between Bucky’s legs. It was almost hungry, the way Steve kissed him; like he’d been left to starve. Like that morning, when they’d kissed on the living room sofa, Bucky straddling Steve’s lap whilst Matty was out walking the dog, was not nearly enough to tide him over. Steve was ravenous, wanting; his hand flipped and began tugging up Bucky’s t-shirt, leaning back to pull it over Bucky’s head and throw it onto the floor.

Steve dove back in, and Bucky laughed into his mouth.

“Slow down, hot shot,” he murmured. “We’ve got all night.”

The kisses became softer, almost on command. Steve’s hands still moving, exploring up Bucky’s chest to where his old dog tag sat. It was languid now, drawn-out and gentle; Steve’s mouth on Bucky’s, Bucky’s hands on Steve. They slowed, the heat pooling between them, yearning and longing.

“C’mon,” Bucky said into Steve’s mouth, tugging at the bottom of Steve’s t-shirt. “Take this off.”

Grinning into Bucky’s mouth, Steve sat back and pulled off the shirt in one smooth motion, flinging it across the room. Bucky stared for a moment, unable to help himself. This was different, too. Where he once regarded Steve’s bare torso as a passing curiosity, and later, something to pointedly avoid staring at, he was now allowed—no, _encouraged—_ to gaze at it like it held all the answers.

Bucky sat up, too, placing his hands at Steve’s hips and then tracing them up, weaving a journey from scar to scar; a knife in France, a bottle in Italy, a bullet in Kazakhstan. On a whim, he pressed a kiss against one and smiled into Steve’s skin at the intake of breath, the release of a sigh. Steve relaxed under Bucky’s touch, then moved until he straddled Bucky properly, knees either side, and let Bucky roam and search. One scar to the next, until he pressed a kiss against Steve’s breastbone, and peered up to find Steve watching, a look in his eyes that Bucky had never seen before.

They kissed then, with Bucky’s head tilted back, Steve moving from his mouth, across his jaw and down his neck. It was at the same time that they seemed to reach for each other’s trousers, and at the same time that they both stopped, hands against the waistbands, Steve’s face against Bucky’s neck.

Bucky exhaled slowly, unmoving.

Then Steve pulled back, his expression a little harder than it had been before.

“I don’t—” he started before stopping himself, searching for the words. “I haven’t…”

“Me neither,” Bucky replied.

“Never?”

“I was married for fifty years,” Bucky replied. “I haven’t really had a chance to do… _this._ You haven’t?”

“Uh, no,” Steve replied, slowly moving his hands to Bucky’s sides, fingers sweeping across his ribs. “I mean I went on a few dates after Peggy and I… but none of them were with—men. It’s only ever been you.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the same for me, too.”

They fell silent for a moment, and this was different like everything else in this new situation. Different because their silences had always been comfortable, and this didn’t feel that way. Different because they’d never really talked about sex, never talked about what happened behind closed doors in their marriages, because those weren’t things people told each other about where they came from. _When_ they came from. Different because—well, _they_ were different. _This_ was different. And new, and exciting, and Bucky knew it wasn’t going to come all at once, it wasn’t going to come _easily,_ either. And they had to be okay with that.

So he let out a soft breath, smiled, and said, “We’ve got time. We don’t have to do this tonight.”

Steve’s face twisted a little. “We have the house to ourselves.”

“It’ll happen again,” Bucky said. “We don’t have to—rush anything. The one thing that you and I have is time, pal.”

Steve brushed his fingers through Bucky’s hair and cupped the back of his neck, leaning down to kiss him shortly, softly.

“You’re right,” he said, then sighed and sitting back. “ _God,_ I’ve been divorced for twenty years and I’m not even ready for this.” Steve let out a bark of laughter. “You would’ve thought twenty years would be enough time to prepare.”

Bucky smiled up at him and placed his hands on Steve’s thighs. “It’s different, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“You and me.”

“Yeah. It’s not a bad different—”

“Just new.”

“I didn’t think that after eighty years of knowing each other there’d still be more to learn,” Steve admitted, ducking his head a little.

“It’s like I’ve gotta meet you all over again,” Bucky replied. “You’re the same person I’ve always known, and yet you’re different, somehow. You look at me different.”

Steve’s lips curled up into a smile. “I look at you like I want to kiss you.”

“All the time?” Bucky said, exasperated, making Steve laugh.

“All the time,” he answered. “I don’t know, you were still with Evie, and then I didn’t want to interrupt your grieving, your loss. All in all, I’ve been waiting nine years to kiss you, Buck.”

Bucky scoffed. “Oh, nine years. A hardship, truly.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Try seventy, bud. Try falling for your best friend at fifteen years old and waiting until you’re _eighty-six._ ”

Steve pulled a face through his laugh. “ _Fifteen?_ I was all skin and bones back then. What the hell got you interested when I got winded on the walk from the kitchen to the bathroom?”

“It was the mix of righteous anger and inability to quit while you’re ahead,” Bucky replied matter-of-factly.

Steve scoffed. “Good thing I’m still both of those things.”

Bucky hummed, leaning up to kiss him. “Mm, good thing.” It was only quick, their mouths smiling into each other, until Steve sighed and rolled his forehead against Bucky’s.

“We’re gonna be okay, aren’t we?”

“‘Course we are, Steve,” Bucky replied. “We just gotta get used to it.”

“Uh huh. Just gotta get used to it.” Steve slipped off Bucky’s lap and onto the free side of the bed. He pulled a face after landing and wiggled the case file Bucky had been reading out from underneath him. Bucky scoffed and placed it on his nightstand. He then laid down beside Steve over the covers, looking over and watching the way Steve’s eyes flickered from the ceiling, to him and back again. His brow was furrowed just a little, his lips red from kissing.

Steve said, “You know what I think?”

“What do you think?”

“I think that sometimes… getting more intimate means losing a previous kind of intimacy.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s… strangely insightful.”

Steve hummed, rolling onto his side. He smiled. “I’m full of wisdom.”

“Sure you are.”

“I am,” Steve replied. “Isn’t there some sort of saying about wisdom coming with age.”

“I’m older than you, Stevie,” Bucky said with a yawn. “That means I’m wiser.”

“You can be wiser if I can be prettier.” Steve shifted closer, throwing an arm over Bucky’s torso, who scoffed.

“If that’s what you need,” Bucky replied, and then yelped when Steve curled his fingers and jabbed them into Bucky’s side. “Hey!”

“Sorry,” Steve replied, absolutely not sorry. “Are you tired?” Bucky hummed. “Do I have to ask to sleep in here or can I just commandeer this side of the bed?”

Bucky opened his mouth to respond and then stopped himself. The moment hit him full-on, painfully. So his voice was strained when he said, “Can we sleep in your room?”

Steve frowned. “What’s wrong with yours?”

What was wrong with Bucky’s was the following: beneath Bucky’s head was Evie’s old pillow, after four years, flat and still present, despite everything, despite it all; it was that the walls still held a thousand photos of Bucky and Evie, of Evie and the kids, Evie and her siblings, Evie and her parents; it was that her perfume was still sprayed almost weekly onto her old pillow, and when the original bottle she’d owned ran out, Bucky bought two more to tide himself over; it was that—

“Evie’s in here,” Bucky admitted quietly.

“Oh,” Steve replied. Bucky rolled his head to the side to watch Steve frown.

They fell silent for a moment, as if Evie was going to walk through the bedroom door at that moment, or her ghost would appear, ready to run Steve out of the house. But she didn’t appear, because Evie was dead and she had been for four years. And Bucky wasn’t entirely over that. She hadn’t been the absolute love of his life, but that didn’t mean that he hadn’t loved her sorely, wholly, devotedly. He would’ve done anything for her, anything to keep her longer, anything to make her happier, and that reflex to look to see if she was okay, if she was thirsty, if she had something to say was still with him.

Bucky still thought he heard her calling down the stairs sometimes or puttering around the kitchen. He still heard her laughter in the wind at the park where she collapsed, still thought of her in the music that played in the living room through the afternoons. She wasn’t in the new songs, so much. She wasn’t in the pop and R&B that played on the radio. But she was in jazz and classical and big bands.

She wasn’t truly gone, even when she was.

“You think she’d be mad at me?” Bucky asked softly.

“I don’t think I ever once saw her mad at you. Did you ever… tell her? About us? About the Grand Canyon?”

Bucky shook his head. “I didn’t want to hurt her,” he replied. That’s what Steve had said, the day they got home. _I think hurting her would be the worst thing you could ever do._ And Bucky agreed. He’d done a whole host of terrible things, out of desperation, patriotism, rage—but none of them would’ve come close to hurting Evie. “I told her though—about me.”

“You did?”

“On her deathbed,” Bucky sighed.

“What did she say?”

Bucky swallowed and reached around to the nightstand. He knew the words off by heart, but he still took the book he was reading from the stand and flipped it open to the bookmark. It was a slip of paper, small, white, crinkled. It read, _Bucky Barnes, you are a person made of love._

Steve pulled himself in closer as he read it. “She loved you.”

“She did.” Bucky carefully placed it back in the pages.

“You loved her.”

“I did.”

“I don’t think she’d be mad at you,” Steve whispered. “I know as well as you do that she wanted you to have a second chance; to love again. And I think she’d think it to be pretty damn fitting that it be me.”

“You think?”

Steve nodded and rested his head on Bucky’s shoulder. “Personally, I don’t know anyone who’s gonna love you more than the guy who’s gonna be saddled with you for two whole lifetimes.”

Bucky laughed, suddenly, and Steve grinned, pressing a kiss into Bucky’s bare shoulder.

“C’mon,” he said, “let’s go to my room.”

“Are you sure?” Bucky asked.

“This space still has Evie in it for you,” Steve replied, soft. “That’s okay, you know. She deserves to still take up space.” He sat up, linking his fingers around Bucky’s. “But we have the house to ourselves tonight, and I think even _she_ would call us crazy not to take advantage of it.”

“Is that right,” Bucky said, being tugged to sitting.

“I’m always right.”

“No, you’re pretty,” Bucky replied. “As the wise one, I’m the one who’s always right.”

Steve rolled his eyes with a smile and pulled Bucky off the bed, leading him down the hall and to his room, where the memories didn’t take up so much space.

*

The morning after was how Bucky always imagined it would be; waking up curled around each other, down to their underwear, bare legs woven together like tree roots. Steve’s arm flung around Bucky, the warmth of his torso pressed against Bucky’s back.

The sun had already long risen by the time Bucky yawned awake, and then, realising where he was, settled back into Steve’s embrace. He saw the time and peered over his shoulder, to where Steve was clearly awake, but lazily resting still, his eyes closed.

“You missed your run,” Bucky muttered.

Steve hummed and pressed a kiss against Bucky’s back. “I’d rather be here,” he replied.

As a day of work loomed, the sun rose, and the two of them, curled, comfortable and warm, slowly rose with it. _This_ was how Bucky had always imagined it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> i am Feeling Things. i actually can't believe it took this long. i cannot believe how long i made this fic. what are you feeling. are you feeling things like me. are you thinking hey this wasn't worth it lmao. are you thinking i canNOT BELIEVE there's still another chapter to go. because there is. because i don't like fics that stop right after the declaration. because i KNOW you want to know how their lives turn out and what they do when the events of the mcu come into play. ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> man i hope you guys like this
> 
> please talk to me in the comments
> 
> p.s. just so we're aware, i directly stole "getting more intimate means losing a previous kind of intimacy" from blondsak, who said that while i was struggling with how to write this relationship after SIXTEEN CHAPTERS of build up and it gave me an epiphany on the rest of this chapter so thanks girl that was helpful i bet you won't even read this fic lmao


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2004-2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am feeling many things right now. i wrote this chapter almost a week ago now, but i only edited it today and discovered what i'd actually written. so now i'm feeling things.
> 
> thank you for coming along on this journey with me. i hope you enjoy the final chapter

It was almost two months to the day later when Bucky whispered, “Stop looking so nervous.”

“I don’t look nervous,” Steve replied.

Bucky scoffed. “ _Please._ It’s like you’re radiating anxiety.”

Steve rolled his eyes and moved away from where they were hissing by the sink. He nodded Rich over to ask for help with serving up, and then the two of them meandered about the kitchen as Bucky counted out the plates and cutlery. It was eleven of them today, shoved around that eight-person dining table. If they had invited all the grandkids, it would’ve been a lot worse. As it stood, all four of their children, plus their partners, and Matty, because he lived there, were talking in the living room or drinking out on the patio.

It was early summer, just warm enough, barely, to spend the afternoons outside again.

“So, what’s the special occasion anyway?” Rosie asked as she wandered into the kitchen, eyes immediately locating the wine.

“There’s a special occasion?” Sylvia asked, following after her. She made grabby hands for the bottle as Rosie poured. “Is it someone’s birthday and I forgot?”

“It’s not, like, the anniversary of the divorce, is it?” Rosie asked. “Because that would be morbid to celebrate. And Mom should be here for that.”

“Interesting that she isn’t here at all,” Rich commented from the oven. “Usually, when it’s a special occasion, she’s invited.”

“No one said it was a special occasion,” Bucky sighed. “Now would someone be helpful and carry the plates through?”

Sylvia and Rosie pulled faces in tandem, and Bucky rolled his eyes until Jacob took the stack from him.

“Why is it that we raised four children and none of them have manners?” Bucky asked as he scooped the cutlery into his hands.

“Because we don’t have manners,” Steve replied. “Hard to teach what you don’t know.”

“Cheers to that,” Rosie said. “My boy is a _heathen_ and that’s because you didn’t raise me right.”

“I’m not a heathen, Mom,” Matty complained.

“You’re wearing a tie-dye t-shirt and I can see your underwear ‘cause your jeans are riding so low,” she told him, dead-pan. “If that’s not a heathen, I don’t know what is.”

Sylvia laughed at Matty rolling his eyes. At his feet Blackbeard padded into the room, one eye searching for food. He located Steve and Rich quickly and attempted to jump up onto his back paws to see.

“Not for you, buddy,” Steve said, lifting a dish higher. “You’re a heathen like Matty, always trying to steal my food.”

“Get a job and we won’t think you’re a heathen,” Bucky informed Matty as he slipped past into the dining room.

“You don’t have a _job?_ ” Rosie asked. “What happened?”

“You had a job last week,” Jacob added.

“I’m not _without a job,_ per se,” Matty replied. “I’m just… _between_ jobs.”

“That still means you don’t have a job,” Charlie stage-hissed from the back door. “Is lunch ready?”

“Sure is,” Steve said, carrying two large dishes into the dining room, where Bucky was setting out the cutlery at the cramped spaces. He absently wondered if they should get a bigger table—he could _make_ one, maybe. “Would someone pour me some of the red?”

“This shit’s _fancy_ ,” Sylvia commented as she picked it up. “What are you doing buying fancy wine?”

“We didn’t buy it,” Bucky said. “That’s a gift from Tony.”

“Stark?” Marcia asked.

“Do you know any other Tonys?”

“I’m Italian,” she replied. “So, yes. There are three at the shop alone.”

“Point taken, yes Stark. He gets sentimental sometimes and sends us fancy wines and whiskeys.”

“Sentimental over what?” Charlie asked. “I didn’t even think you knew him that well.”

Bucky shrugged, and Steve replied, “Buck sent a copy of Evie’s old blueberry muffin recipe over a few years ago, and as far as I can tell, every time he makes them he has his assistant send us a crate of expensive alcohol.”

Rich raised an eyebrow as he entered with the dishes of roast potatoes and vegetables. “Tony Stark gets weepy over Evie’s muffin recipe? I mean they’re _good_ , but—”

“Tony Stark can _cook?_ ” Scott interrupted.

“That’s a no,” Bucky replied. “His assistant can cook. She makes him the muffins then sends us wine in thanks. It’s possible that she does all this without him even asking—”

“In which case,” Steve said, receiving his glass of wine from Sylvia and taking a sip, “thank you Pepper Potts.”

They crowded around the table, Bucky and Steve sitting together at one end with their knees knocking and elbows bumping. They served themselves up their food, piling their plates high with it all and then drowning their meals in gravy after.

There was loud chatter as there had always been; that familiar sense of family, of telling stories over each other, getting progressively noisier as they tried to be heard. This was home, for Bucky, and he watched it all quietly from the head of the table, a smile on his face. This was the reprieve he was given after war and torture and years of nightmares; this was the soft, gentle reward for his fear and panic and pain; Sylvia telling some story about whoever Heather was now dating, while Ryan and Charlie talked about Holly’s asthma check-up she had last week; Scott recounting a story about Rich and Rich retelling a story about Scott; Matty feeding pieces of meat to Blackbeard under the table and swearing on his life to Jacob that he’ll get another job. And Steve, beside him, politely listening and drinking that fancy wine that tasted no better than the cheap bottles they bought around the corner.

Steve caught his eye and smiled at him, like he knew, like he agreed.

Then Charlie called over, “So, Dad, what’s the special occasion?”

“That’s what I asked!” Rosie cried. “They said there wasn’t one.”

“ _No,_ I said that I hadn’t said it was a special occasion.”

Rosie rolled her eyes like she dealt with enough technicalities in the court room. “So, there is one.”

“There has to be,” Sylvia agreed. “They called you up from D.C. for this.”

“Has it got anything to do with giving me five thousand dollars?” Matty asked.

“What do you need _five thousand dollars_ for?” Jacob asked.

Matty shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out when I have it.”

Bucky laughed, glancing over to Steve again, who shrugged. They’d decided to do this a month ago, and today was the first date they could get everybody in the same room. It still didn’t feel any less nerve-wracking than it had for the previous century. Bucky had agonised over this for weeks, backing out and then agreeing to do it all over again almost everyday during the drive to work.

Steve had been—easier about it. He hadn’t been holding the feelings in since he was a teenager; he hadn’t gone through decriminalisation of something he merely _was_ , or the AIDs crisis, or even hiding it from his wife for fifty years. Still, it had been almost a decade for him, and it wasn’t an easy decision to be made.

But it was the right one, and they both knew it.

Steve shot Bucky a reassuring smile.

“Okay, there’s a special occasion,” Bucky said. He could feel their eyes on him. He’d imagined telling them a hundred times over the years, especially back in the days after the Grand Canyon, when he’d almost reached out to Evie, almost told her in the dead of night, fuelled by fantasies of love and acceptance he wasn’t entirely sure he’d receive.

His mouth felt suddenly dry and he took a sip of wine. Then another for good measure.

“So, uh…” Bucky trailed off. _Oh God, oh fuck._ How was he supposed to say it? Was he supposed to lead up to it, remind the kids that he loved their mother and always had, that he wasn’t anyone different? It was a solace, sitting at the table with Rich and Scott, who’d _get it_ at least—but what about the rest of them? What would help them understand?

He’d thought about what he might say for years, thought about it more seriously the past two months with Steve, sneaking around and finding their footing together without letting anyone know, and _still_ , in the moment, he couldn’t conjure the words.

Steve said, “Do you want me to do it?”

“Yes,” Bucky said immediately, relieved. “Yeah. You go on ahead.”

“Okay. Well. We wanted to talk to all of you at the same time about this,” he started, “mostly so we only had to do it once. But, well… Buck and I are in a relationship. And we’re gonna get married.”

“ _WHAT?”_

“What?”

“Oh, my God.”

“Holy shit.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh, my _God._ ”

“Fucking _hell_ , Dad.”

“Knew it.”

“You owe me ten dollars.” Bucky grinned and shot Rich a look, who was sending a victorious look towards Scott.

“But I knew it, too,” Scott complained.

“But you thought they _weren’t_ dating, only that they were totally into each other,” Rich replied.

“You knew about this?” Charlie asked from across the table.

“Had a hunch,” Rich replied.

“Had a _hunch?_ ” Matty questioned, exasperated. “I live in this house and I had no idea!”

“That’s just ‘cause you’re oblivious,” Steve commented lightly.

“You’re getting _married?_ ” Rosie asked. “Like, officially?”

“Well, neither of us proposed,” Steve said, “but it’s a given.”

Sylvia leaned across the table, her eyebrows furrowed. “How long have you even been together?” 

“Like two months,” Bucky replied, then his face dropped. “Oh, my God, is this how Heather felt? Steve, we gotta have a longer engagement than Heather did.”

Steve laughed. “Don’t worry, Buck, I’m not gonna leave you at the altar.”

“It’s not even _legal_ yet, Dad,” Rosie huffed. “I wouldn’t worry about a shorter engagement than Heather.”

The table lapsed into silence for a moment, and then Scott said, “For clarity’s sake—”

“Oh, my God, Scott,” Rich interrupted.

“—the two months. Did they start before or after that day we came over for lunch.”

“ _Scott._ ”

“I need to know! Ten dollars rides on this.”

“You made a bet on whether we were dating or not?” Steve asked.

“Yes,” Scott replied. “I thought you _weren’t_ but were absolutely interested in each other—”

“And I believed you were together—”

“No,” Scott corrected. “Your exact guess was that they had been having an affair your entire life.”

Steve choked on his wine and the wide eyes of their kids turned back on them. Bucky patted Steve on the back.

“We weren’t,” he clarified. “It’s just two months. The day _of_ the lunch, if you’re that interested about it.”

Scott paused, then, full of awe, whispered, “I match-made Captain America and Bucky Barnes.”

After a moment of digestion, Sylvia leaned forward again. “So, you’re together,” she said. “ _Together_ together.” Bucky nodded. There was a pause, and then Sylvia smiled wide, her eyes a little watery. “Oh, _Dad._ ” She scraped back her chair and moved around the dinner table, until she was by his side and pulling him up into a hug. “I’m so happy for you,” she said, sniffing.

Bucky buried his face in her neck, his face nearly splitting in two with his grin. “Thanks, baby,” he said, holding her tight. His hands were shaking a little, and he wondered if she noticed. By the time they’d pulled back, Rich and Scott were already standing too, as were Charlie and Rosie.

He embraced the twins at once, and then Rosie when she leapt at him with a big smile, right after clinging tightly to Steve. It was all of them; it was his family and he hugged them all one by one, Rich and Scott and Jacob and Ryan; the kids and their partners, Matty when he felt left out and wanted to be involved, too, attaching himself to Bucky a little tighter than he would’ve guessed.

Then it was laughter, because that was all they could do afterwards. Laughing because they hadn’t ever thought it possible, or they had and still lost ten dollars over it. Laughing because “Does this mean I can call Steve _Dad_ now? Because I’ve been slipping up and almost doing it my entire life,” and “Oh, shit, does this mean I have to buy _two_ Father’s Day presents? I can’t even remember to buy the _one_.” Laughing because there was joy in the house, because Steve had pulled Bucky into his side as everyone took their seats again and pressed a kiss against his temple and said, “I love you,” and it hadn’t been a hidden action, it hadn’t be sneaky or sly; it had been real, and loud, and _seen_ and that was a far cry from anything Bucky could have imagined when he was fifteen and dabbing the blood from Steve’s lips in a movie theatre bathroom.

They asked questions, because of course they did, like _How did you know?_ and _How long have you felt this way?_ And they answered them as well as they could, Bucky admitting to his seventy-something year-long crush, that made Rich’s eyes bug out of his head and Charlie choke a little on his wine. They steered away from the dark moments and focused on the light, though; on Steve realising in Nevada, watching Maria and Carol kiss, on their trip to California and Scott’s biography – the newest draft of which Bucky had now read – practically screaming Steve’s feelings from the rooftops.

After, they cleared away the plates and ate desert, then the kids did the washing up and drying, alternating out half way through like they had their entire lives, and Bucky brought a topped up glass of wine to Steve, out in the garden, where they drank instead of smoked, because Sylvia had swiped Bucky’s cigarettes, claiming they weren’t good for him.

He said, “Thank you,” to shatter the silence.

“For what?”

“For—for doing the announcing. You know I’ve imagined how that would go a thousand times? I don’t think I ever fantasised about not even getting the words out.” 

Steve sighed and wrapped an arm around Bucky, pressing a kiss into his hair. “You’ve spent the better part of a century unable to talk about it,” Steve said quietly. “That’s not gonna get reversed in a day, Buck.”

“I know.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you did great.”

Bucky hummed. “I guess your opinion is worth a lot.”

Steve grinned at him, and they kissed, smiling into each other’s mouths.

“We’re getting married, too,” Bucky mimicked, making Steve laugh. “Were you gonna tell me about that in advance?”

“Clearly not, ‘cause I didn’t,” Steve replied.

Bucky shook his head, smiling and sighing. “I can’t believe you.”

“Hey, this way we don’t have to do an announcement however many years down the line when they finally legalise it,” Steve said. “I was killing two birds with one stone.”

“My hero,” Bucky drawled, as the back door opened.

“Dad,” Rich complained, “It’s Rosie’s turn to dry up and she won’t do it.”

Steve blinked. “Oh, my God, for a second there I thought it was 1965.”

Bucky snorted. “No such luck. It’s 2004 and our kids are still _acting like children!_ ” He called the last part out, and a faint _Fuck you!_ came back from inside the house.

Steve sighed, disentangling his arm from around Bucky and starting for the door. “Rosemary Sarah Rogers, you are fifty-five years old, would it kill you to act like it?” 

Rosie called back, “I haven’t been a Rogers for twenty-nine years!”

“Then you can get the hell out of my house!” 

Laughter echoed from the house and Bucky grinned at Rich, who came out to join him.

“You get your ten bucks?” Bucky asked.

“Nah, apparently my conditions were too specific,” he replied with a shrug.

Bucky let a beat pass, and then asked, “You really thought Steve and I were cheating with each other your whole life?”

Rich shrugged. “Not really, I guess. Dad tried to save his marriage more than once and I know it, and you—God, you and Evie really were something.” He tried for a smile. “I guess I just kinda thought, if you two were gonna be together, it would’ve been from the beginning.”

Bucky sighed through his nose and took a sip of wine. “Yeah, I think I thought the same, even way back when.”

“You really were in love with him since you were a kid?”

“1932,” Bucky said. “And too afraid to admit it. You know, when you told me you were gay, we were standing right—” he shifted Rich to the side and took a step to the right “—here.” 

Rich laughed. “God, yeah. I guess we were. That was so long ago.”

“I know it was a big night for you, telling someone and all, but it was a big night for me, too.”

“Yeah?”

“I looked at you and wondered how the hell you got so brave.”

Rich blinked at him. “I was raised by the bravest people the world had ever seen, that’s how.” He pulled Bucky into a hug, patting his back twice before pulling away. “C’mon, I wanna see Rosie stuck on drying duty.”

“She always preferred washing up,” Bucky agreed, following Rich back inside.

“That’s why she was striking; ‘cause Sylvie called washing up first.”

Bucky supposed they still were just kids, despite being fifty years old.

In the kitchen, Rosie stuck her tongue out at Rich when he smirked at her, and Sylvia laughed, blowing soapy bubbles at them from the sink. Blackbeard barked around their feet, and Bucky leaned down to scratch his head as he started towards the living room, where everyone seemed to be gathering.

He got there just in time to see Charlie sit Steve down on the sofa, stand in front of him and announce, “I know you’re a super soldier, and your bicep is the size of my head, but I’m just going to formally tell you, with witnesses, that if you hurt my dad I _will_ hit you with my car.”

They laughed, and Bucky clapped Charlie on the back as he passed, slumping onto the sofa beside Steve.

“You should take that threat seriously,” Bucky informed Steve, who was grinning at him like he was something bright, something lovely. “Marcy told me he chased Julia’s last scumbag ex out of the house with a baseball bat.”

“I did,” Charlie sniffed, “and I’d do it again.”

Steve’s smile was the size of the goddamn country when he said, “Understood, kid. You won’t get any trouble from me.”

_ Oh Stevie,  _ Bucky thought. _No trouble from you? That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told._

__

*

It was a novelty, for a while; Steve and Bucky’s relationship within the family. It was the grandchildren coming over just to see if their parents had told the truth; Jason bringing baby Jack as a pretence and whispering _Are you really dating Steve?_ and Holly, at sixteen, playing with the dog and saying, _It’s like a romance novel, don’t you think?_

Then, over time, it became normal. Bucky and Steve were together and that was the way the world worked. It quickly became clear, though, that not much changed at all. Their families were already integrated; Sylvia and Rosie were already sisters and Rich had considered himself the youngest of four for most of his life. They already lived together, already both came to all the family meals, no matter which side of the family it was, already were considered as a unit: Bucky and Steve, Steve and Bucky, you don’t get one without the other. All that really changed, in the end, was that they’d kiss now, sometimes, and Matty would see it and roll his eyes and say _Get a room_ , to which Bucky would reply, _I have a whole house, buddy._

They fell together in a natural way. This was what they had always had, but deeper, more intimate. Those worries that marked the beginning of their relationship faded away; they learned to move around each other again in the kitchen, taught themselves how to feel comfortable side by side. It took until the end of the 2004 for them both to sleep in Bucky’s room, and when they did it was accidental; talking late into the night and simply falling asleep there, and in the morning, when Bucky woke up tangled in another person, he didn’t feel guilty, he didn’t feel Evie’s disappointed presence, he just felt warm, and safe, and loved.

They fit, as Bucky had assumed they always would. Even when they worked up the nerve to have sex, it wasn’t anything but careful and kind and loving. It was new, it would take getting used to, but it was fun, and it was with Steve, so Bucky had no complaints, really. It was just another small victory, another unlocked layer of a relationship Bucky had once thought he’d discovered all aspects of.

And Bucky didn’t have to tell anyone new for a while; because the family spread it amongst themselves as expected, and Bucky’s last remaining sister, Becca, had already heard it from Sylvia and approached him, rather than the other way around. And she was a little confused, but she understood, and left happy for him and promising that she’d tell his nieces and nephews because he was still struggling getting the words out.

And then Peggy Carter came around.

And she did not know.

And she drank tea in their living room, sitting in the armchair, while they discussed the kids and the grandkids and baby Jack, a year-and-a-half old at the end of the summer, until she said, “You’re acting twitchy, today, Steve,” and the room silenced.

Even Blackbeard, on the floor, ducked his head.

Steve stuttered his way through an excuse until he met Peggy’s disbelieving gaze, and then stuttered his way through a different one. Steve hadn’t struggled as much as Bucky with telling the family; he’d always been a good public speaker, from his days performing on stage to televised speeches long after the war was over—but there was something about Peggy that seemed to shake that confidence. Bucky thought it was the past between them, it was the way that Steve had loved her so wholly and hadn’t felt satisfied in return; hadn’t felt so completely adored.

Seeing Steve nervous unsettled Bucky, and he placed a hand on Steve’s arm, raising his eyebrows to ask an unspoken question. Steve nodded, looking desperate and relieved, and so Bucky summoned the courage from God-knows-where and said, “Peggy… Steve and I are in a relationship,” to which Peggy responded, “Would you mind fetching the gin, dear? I might need some.”

And Bucky thought, as Peggy left that evening, kissing them both on the cheek and telling them how much she cared for them both, that maybe he could tell someone again; that a wall had been knocked down, and it wouldn’t be the worst thing if he had to come out to someone else, even if it was a long way down the line, and certainly not today.

*

It was an indisputable fact, in the end: Bucky Barnes loved Steve Rogers, and Steve Rogers loved Bucky Barnes. There could be no Steve without Bucky, and no Bucky without Steve.

Scott started writing another draft of the Now-Authorised Captain America Biography, and they received a whole host of Father’s Day gifts each. Their first Christmas as a couple started with lazy morning sex in as the sun rose, light filtering through the curtains of what was now Bucky and Steve’s bedroom, and later piling some seventeen people into the living room, to eat and drink and share presents. Steve’s to Bucky that morning had been in the quiet of the kitchen, before Matty woke up; a piece of old, yellowed paper, crumpled from years of sitting in a box, with a crayon drawing of a little girl with yellow hair, and four parents, holding her three baby siblings. By New Year’s it was framed on the wall, with the rest of the family photos.

They went to work still and drove in together. They went grocery shopping and laughed in the aisles. They went jogging, side by side, like it had always been, but now if they stopped to kiss in the silence of an empty early-morning park, then that was something that had always been, too.

They danced, because that’s what Bucky loved, and despite being eighty-something years old, with decades-worth of practice, Steve still had two left feet and no sense of rhythm. It wasn’t like dancing with Evie; it was not smooth and jaunty, as if they would follow each other’s twists and turns with no hesitation, with a silent understanding, and it wasn’t the way Steve and Peggy danced together, either, like they were clinging, like they were hoping they looked okay from the outside as they stumbled their ways through the songs. Bucky danced with Steve in the living room to the old phonograph and it was soft, it was quiet, it was Steve laughing when he stepped on Bucky’s toes, and Bucky, so enormously grateful that this was his reality.

And time continued, as it tended to do. They caught bad guys and went into the field, guns in their hands, backs covered by the other, and afterwards there were no new nightmares, no reoccurring ones, because Bucky had long worked through the fears, long pushed through the panic. And their grandchildren got married; Julia first, to a man she met on cooking course, and then in 2007, Heather, to someone she’d known for five years and had dated for two.

Baby Jack grew as the oldest of the great-grandchildren, a flock of which followed over the years, but he looked eerily like the few rare photos of one Bucky Barnes, when he had been small and before he’d ever met Steve. Jack would sit in on the rug in the living room, head pillowed on Blackbeard’s fur, playing with toy cars and stuffed animals, while his parents and grandparents and uncles and aunts talked and ate and shared stories from their lives, all branching out in different directions.

There were tough days, sometimes; the 28th of December feeling hollow and grey, or Bucky’s wedding anniversary somehow passing without celebration, without a yearly dinner and appropriate gift. There were days, like those in 2008, when work became suddenly sharp and painful, with Tony Stark vanishing in Afghanistan and Bucky pulling in every favour Nick Fury had ever owed him for helping get him that Director position, so he and Steve could lead the S.H.I.E.L.D. investigation that combed the deserts in search.

They were four years together, eighty-three together, when they saw the explosion on the satellites and sent the coordinates to Colonel Rhodes to hunt down. And then they were in California when Tony returned, arm in a sling, bruised and beaten, shutting down the weapons manufacturing department of Stark Industries and causing a riot at the press conference. When Tony returned to his mansion that evening, he stopped suddenly at the sight of Bucky and Steve in the kitchen, pulling the freshly baked muffins out of the oven and setting them on the side.

“It’s good to have you back,” Steve said, when he pulled Tony into a hug. “And we support whatever decision you make with your company.” Tony wouldn’t have said it aloud, but Bucky saw the look in his eyes, like those were the words he’d been desperately wanting to hear all day. By morning, half the muffins were gone, and within a month there was a red and gold metal suit in the Middle East, clearing out Ten Rings bases and making government agencies frantic with tracking it down.

And life continued on after that, too, after Tony said _I am Iron Man_ and the world tilted just a little bit on its side; Steve was the original superhero, then Carol, and now Tony, and Bucky sometimes opened The Avengers Initiative document that Fury had shared with him, and wondered what it might look like when it was finished, when it came to fruition. There were strange things out there; a green monster the US military hunted for months, aliens in their midst and powered people, slowly approaching from the shadows.

Still, Bucky and Steve continued on, Matty moved out of the house and got married, Jason got promoted and Heather led the department at her magazine. The kids celebrated birthdays and anniversaries and Rosie appeared on the bench for another series of high-profile cases; Jacob successfully appealed several inmates off death row, and Rich went on another six-month trip to Antarctica, decades after the first, to track the progress and see the difference. Scott published a new Captain America textbook, kept working on his biography, claiming that there was always something new to add, it never felt right to finish it, while Holly grew up, still the shortest in the family, the odd one out; fiery red hair and green eyes she must’ve inherited from the milkman. Her asthma improved as she got older, but she still wore glasses, still struggled with reading and yet wrote voraciously.

One Christmas everyone received a knitted jumper, and another matching scarves. Charlie, editor-in-chief at his office, hired a young Holly Cook onto his staff, and she worked as hard as anyone else to get the stories right.

In fact, she was there on the day the wormhole opened above Stark tower.

She was on the ground, running for her life and taking photos, covering the scene as aliens poured out from a rift in space, and the Avengers were formed in the chaos. It had been the day before that Fury had shown up at their front door and asked if they would help; two super soldiers were better than one, apparently, and “I figure you wouldn’t go without your fiancé,” Fury said, with a pointed look towards Bucky.

“How do you even know—”

“I’m the Director, Rogers,” Fury replied airily. “It’s my _job_ to know things. Besides, you work in a spy agency; practically everyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. knows. We’ve just been waiting for you to tell us.”

The suits looked a lot like the gear they wore once in another life, in the forests of France, the bombed-out villages of Italy. The Captain America suit, with the Kevlar padding and attached cowl; the gear and weapons of a sniper from the 107th, a navy blue jacket and black cargo pants. Even the boots felt familiar when he pulled them on. Bucky wondered if nightmares would seep from the soles, but then Steve shot him a smile and said, “God I forgot how good that jacket looks on you,” and the feelings faded away.

They didn’t call Carol, but it was a close thing. Agent Barton was brainwashed and his partner, Natasha Romanoff, whom Bucky and Steve had both heard of through reputation alone, but never met, drove forward the fight to find him. The Hulk came out of hiding, and Tony Stark wandered onto the bridge, his smile crooked and scheming when he saw them, saying, “If it ain’t Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky—they rope you in on this, too?” before promptly hacking S.H.I.E.L.D.’s servers.

In the end, it was a brutal fight on the streets of New York. It was the news playing the footage again and again; a literal _god_ named Thor striking lightning across Main Street, the Hulk rampaging up First Avenue. It was Captain America and Bucky Barnes, back in the public eye, mere months after Dum Dum’s death, mere years after Morita’s. The final Howling Commandos, fighting again, but instead of Nazis it was aliens, and instead of Peggy’s photo in Steve’s compass, it was Captain America and Bucky Barnes kissing in the wreckage of a flaming bus that had almost killed them, just relieved to be alive for a moment longer.

Afterwards, the news coverage would be more tiring than the aliens. In the end, the stories culminated to one:

**_ MY GRANDFATHERS, THE SUPER SOLDIERS _ **

_ America’s golden boys, the heroes of World War II, and the love that grew over a century of loyal friendship: Captain Steve Rogers and Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, and the relationship the public never thought they’d have. _

__

_ By Holly Cook _

__

In a press conference, almost immediately after the dust had cleared, after the questions of aliens and Avenging had all been asked, a few weeks before Holly’s article that would end the ensuing coverage:

“Captain Rogers, if I may,” a reporter asked from the audience. “The world has seen footage of your—your kiss with Sergeant Barnes. It’s well known that you married Peggy Carter, and that Barnes married Evelyn Adams after the war. Would you mind confirming the nature of your relationship?”

Steve had scoffed, beaten-looking, bruised, still wearing the Captain America get up like a second skin. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but Bucky knew he’d missed it; Bucky knew that Captain America was as much a part of Steve as the scrawny asthmatic kid was.

He’d said, “The _nature_ of our relationship? Well, I’ve been in love with him since 1995, if that helps at all.”

Bucky laughed, automatically leaning into Steve’s side. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Rogers: that’s _nothing._ When you’ve been in love with me for some seventy years, then we’ll talk.” It felt invigorating to say it out loud, to say it in front of millions; to know that there was no jail time for loving Steve, know that no one was foolish enough to risk insulting super soldiers, know that he wasn’t sick or wrong or bad for what he felt at all.

Tony snorted from Steve’s other side and Bucky added, for the hell of it, “Would America mind legalising gay marriage, while we’re on the subject? I’ve been waiting long enough.”

It would be that clip that circulated the news, that was replayed again and again, that would receive some twenty million hits on YouTube and be brought back at every talk show Bucky or Steve sat at over the next few years.

And it was in the wake of The Incident; of aliens attacking New York, of the Captain America suit entering their household and taking residence in the closet, that made them sit down and wonder. Wonder about the future, about this second lifetime they had been given; about how they would spend it—just repeating the days at S.H.I.E.L.D.? Just fighting bad guys and endangering themselves again and again? Just sitting back, like they had in semi-retirement, replanting the garden like they did every year or spending the day lounging in bed, tangled together and tired?

However good the last option sounded, they knew what they wanted.

He knew that Peggy had taken her second chance, and Evie had wished for nothing more than a second for Bucky. That Steve _was_ his chance; that Steve was his future, his past, his everything. That kissing Steve felt like coming home, that lying in his arms felt like protection; that in the wake of The Incident, when no nightmares surfaced, that he had really started again, and Steve would be there for it. That Steve would love him for it, that Bucky would love Steve, too.

It was with that in mind that they adopted her; a baby girl they called Margaret Evelyn Barnes-Rogers; that Bucky said, _Hello Maggie_ to, upon meeting her, making Steve immediately replied, “Peggy was right—you have _got_ to stop nicknaming them right out of the womb.” 

She was tiny and new, would grow with dark hair and dark eyes, the first in the family, with no super soldier blood in her body, and just an average-lengthed life ahead of her, filled with as much love as they could possibly give her.

Maggie was six months old when Steve came home with a cat of muddy white fur that he’d found in the gutter, and said, “You always wanted a cat, right?”, to which Bucky, with a child in his arms, replied, “Yeah, but Evie was allergic,” and then Alpine became family, too.

*

On a Sunday morning, the sun rose bright and early, casting warm rays of light across Bucky’s bed. He watched the dust motes swirl up in the air whenever he moved, stared out at how the room glowed yellow. He turned his attention back to the book in his hands: _Just A Kid From Brooklyn: The Captain America Story_ by Scott Watson.

**_ STEVE ROGERS:  _ ** _ There was always a bright spot. Things were tough back then, but there was always some light. I guess—I guess Bucky was that for me. Always there, always looking out for me. I didn’t know how anyone made it in the world without a best friend like that. He nursed me back to health maybe a hundred times, stayed in the war even after Azzano because he didn’t want to separate again… He was the light in every stretch of dark I ever faced. That’s sappy, ain’t it? _

Bucky looked up as Steve appeared in the doorway, Maggie whining against his bare chest. They’d heard her complaining through the baby monitor, and Steve had gone to fetch her, leaving Bucky in the quiet of their room.

Carefully, he climbed back into bed, settling Maggie down across his chest as he laid beside Bucky.

“Hey, baby,” Bucky cooed softly, flipping his book over. “How are you doing this fine morning?”

She made a moaning sound into Steve’s skin and Bucky grinned, leaning over to press a kiss against her dark, downy hair. Steve’s smile as he watched was like the sun rising outside their window, and Bucky couldn’t help but press a kiss against it and feel the warmth.

“She’s fussier than her siblings,” Steve said, as Maggie whined over their attention flicking away for just a moment. At the foot of the bed, Alpine leapt onto the covers, exploring her way up the bed until she could curl into the spot between their hips.

“She just knows what she wants,” Bucky replied. He rested his cheek against Steve’s shoulder, watching Maggie blink and stare up at him, her lips parted and mouth making soft, squeaky noises. He’d always loved this part the first time around; the soft moments of watching, of loving. “Hey, do you think we’ll get lucky and finally have a child who becomes President?”

Steve scoffed. “Fifth time’s the charm.”

“We should get her into a debate club, or something. Model UN. Get her real interested in politics from the get-go.”

“Buck, I love you, I agree with you, but she’s not even a year old. I think you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

Bucky hummed into the soft skin of Steve’s right shoulder. “Time flies,” he said. “Before you even know it, she’ll be all grown up, moved out, choosing a career in something that _isn’t_ politics, and we’ll be adopting a sixth child to make up for it.”

“You know, for a moment there, I thought you were going to say something insightful.”

Bucky smiled. “Time flies,” he repeated. “Before you know it, we’ll be elderly men, two hundred years old, living in some retirement home with a porch where we can watch swans out on a lake together.”

“Is that the dream?”

“Mm. Or a farm, with chickens and a greenhouse. We could live with no internet out in the quiet of a small village, all rolling hills and woodland.”

“Do we get a dog in this future?”

“We get a dog in every future, Stevie,” Bucky replied. “I know what you’re like.”

“You do,” he replied softly, and Bucky peered up at him to see Steve staring down at their baby girl, their daughter, like she was the greatest thing to appear in his life, like she was the miracle at the end of a hundred years of struggle. They loved every inch of their children, their grandchildren, their great-grandchildren, and they loved every inch of Maggie, of their newest member of the family; the newest baby of the brood.

Steve said, “No matter where we end up, I’m gonna love you. You know that, right?”

“Of course I do. ‘Til the end of the line, Steve. No matter how long that line is.”

“Even if Dr. Erksine was wrong and we live even longer than two hundred years?”

Bucky hummed and smiled into Steve’s skin, stretching his hand out to rest it gently on Maggie’s back. One day, maybe soon, maybe not, when the world caught up with Bucky and his feelings, they’d get married. They’d be surrounded by their family and kiss at the altar and swear themselves to each other for the rest of their lives; and at the front of the church, Steve would say _You’ve got all my love forever, Buck_ , and Bucky would grin and say the same thing back. And maybe soon, maybe not, they’d quit their jobs and find something quieter to do; maybe Steve would paint full time again, and Bucky would finally take one of those carpentry courses he’d been thinking about since he built Rich’s dining room table for his old Harlem apartment.

And maybe soon, maybe not, they would do what they had to do to protect the Earth, and they would come home afterwards, to a little girl and a soft white cat and whichever large, obnoxious dog Steve fell in love with next. And they’d dance in the living room to some song from their youth, and teach Maggie the steps along the way, her hands so tiny in theirs.

But for now, they were in bed on a Sunday morning, with Maggie on Steve’s chest and a cat curled up between them, and Bucky smiled. Of course he did; there was nothing but happiness here.

He said, “I want nothing more than to live three hundred years with you, Steve.” And of course, he meant that, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the mandatory End Of A Long Fic speech:
> 
> thank you so much for reading this story. i had so much fun writing it. i never thought it'd be longer than 20k, especially not by this amount, and the fact that you guys actually.... sat here and read it??? amazing. thank you to everyone who binged it lmao and everyone who also kept up with every chapter update and commented along the way. comments are literally the only thing that makes me finish fics.
> 
> i decided this fic would end before 2014 because i don't wanna think about a universe in which hydra has been hiding in shield the whole time and what the heck that does to bucky and steve and their family. for this reason, the only thing that happens in 2014 is maggie's first word and it's almost definitely "fuck" OR an attempt at saying bucky and it comes out "fucky". anyway. i love this whole family, i love the characters i got to make and i super love that you guys felt for them too?? the amount of sadness i read from you guys over evie's passing was huge. (sorry for killing her by the way.)
> 
> as promised, i'll link the finalised family tree below AND the moodboard post that you can totally reblog on tumblr bc it has all the fic details. alright. thank you. pretty please talk to me in the comments.
> 
> [family tree](https://tempestaurora.tumblr.com/post/617373528613863424/all-my-love-forever-finalised-family-tree-all-my)   
>  [moodboard](https://tempestaurora.tumblr.com/post/617373619728908288/tempestaurora-all-my-love-forever-by)

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed and i would really really love to read your thoughts in the comments! (comments make me write faster and they are my only sustenance in the midst of this lockdown)
> 
> pretty please tell me what you think and have a good day!


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